The Pairing(104)

“As we’ve learned, I can eat a peach for hours.”

“Speaking of, let the record to show that I was in the lead and would have won.”

“It’s done, Theo.”

“I’m just! Saying!”





The first time I almost tell Theo I love them in Palermo, we’re at Mercato di Ballarò.

“Quanto,” they say, enunciating. “Not quando, that’s when. Quanto is how much.”

“Quanto,” I repeat.

Theo nods. “That’s the only word you need.”

“Quanto?” we ask the leathery old woman grilling stigghiola under a thick cloud of smoke, and she sells us skewers of lamb guts for two euros. Quanto to panelle (crispy chickpea fritters) and quanto to pani ca’ meusa (lamb spleen sandwiches). On and on through the noisy, endless street market, to rickety carts and steaming gingham-covered vats, between pungent bins of fresh-caught fish and produce stands so overfull that artichoke leaves cascade to the ground. We taste everything we can. Somewhere ahead, Pinocchio bobs above the crowd like our merry little North Star.

“I feel so much pressure to pick the best arancini,” I say, eyeing yet another cart selling them. “It’s like, we only get one chance to have our first arancini in Sicily.”

“I think all fried rice balls are precious gifts from God,” Theo says. “Ooh, but those are really big, holy shit— Ciao! Quanto?”

Once, when we first moved in together, I accidentally killed my thyme plant. I’d carefully caramelized onions and figs and made pate feuilletée from scratch for this one perfect galette, and when I went to snip some sprigs for the finishing touch, I knocked the plant out of the window. While I was mourning my exploded thyme on the sidewalk, Theo was substituting a spoonful of Aleppo pepper flakes in total disregard of my vision. It was improvised on instinct, and it was better.

I love ingredients because they have memories. Stories, histories, personalities. A peach has a memory of every finger that’s touched it. A vanilla bean cures for months. Sometimes when I take a first bite, I try to name every individual ingredient, to find the gardener who pruned the tree that yielded the olives for the oil coating this specific pan in this specific kitchen watched over by one specific cook, who came to work thinking of his mother’s skillet back home.

Theo cares about all of this, but they’re an instincts-first eater. They understand ingredients like old friends who don’t need anything when they come over. They know when to apply their knowledge and remind me when to think less and simply open my mouth. They question me, surprise me, challenge me. Taste is what I do; Theo makes me better at it.

Theo buys an arancini the size of a grapefruit and splits it down the middle, gasping as it reveals a center of spiced yellow rice and dark ragù. When it hits their tongue, they close their eyes and wiggle their shoulders with pleasure.

I almost say it then. It’s so clear in my mind. I’m in love with you.

The man dunking whole octopuses into a huge vat of boiling water bellows at the top of his voice, “Polpo, polpo!” And the moment passes.


The second time, it almost slips out on a laugh.

We’re on the stairs of Teatro Massimo, the opera house near the city center, digesting between market crawls. Theo counts the steps, finds a spot, then lays their long body down.

“What are you doing?”

“The Godfather Part III,” they say, as if this should be obvious. They speak up into the sky, their head nearly resting on the stone. “This is where Mary dies at the end.”

“How could I forget.” I climb up and gaze down at them. Their sunglasses have slid onto their forehead, and their freckles are on glorious display. “You know, I didn’t think Sofia Coppola was that bad.”

“That’s because you have a soft heart and you liked The Virgin Suicides.”

I offer them my hand, and they give me that familiar look, eyes narrowed, mouth taut at the corners like, If I say one word I’ll kill us both laughing. That look made our homeroom teachers stop assigning seats in alphabetical order to keep us separated.

They take my hand and, instead of letting me pull them up, they pull me down beside them.

Sometimes, when people first meet me now, they think I’m a serious person. They see an art degree drinking espresso in a Parisian kitchen and imagine some Nietzsche-reading gourmand. They don’t know how loud my laugh can be, or how shamelessly I’ll commit to a bit, or the dirty jokes Theo and I taught ourselves in Elvish to use at the Renaissance festival when we were thirteen. It’s a shame, because I like that about myself. My favorite parts of me are the ones that Theo brings out, the ones that grew to match theirs.

It almost comes out as we’re laughing together on the steps. The stones reflect the sun like we reflect each other, and I think, I love you.

Theo says, “Is that guy choking on a sausage?”

I say, “What?”

There is, it turns out, a tourist on the sidewalk choking on a hunk of street meat. We sit up as Blond Calum leaps into action, deploying an expert Heimlich maneuver to completion. The gathered crowd cheers, and the tourist gives Calum a grateful hug. He’s a hero. It’s no longer our moment; it’s Calum’s.

“Damn,” Theo says, as Calum is enveloped by six arms—Dakota’s, Montana’s, Ginger’s. “He’s definitely getting laid tonight.”