I cook dinner for us both, delighting in using Cole’s heavy-bottomed copper pots and wooden spoons. Almost nothing in this house is made of plastic. Even the items Cole never uses are the finest quality, as much for decoration as for the formerly-unlikely chance that somebody would make real use of the kitchen.
Cole only cooks the simplest meals for himself. Still, he’s a keen student and watches carefully while I mix four egg yolks, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and Italian herbs in a small bowl.
“That’s a lot of bacon,” he comments.
“If it’s not half bacon and peas, then it’s not carbonara,” I laugh.
“I think the Italians might disagree.”
“I’ll tell you a secret that will shock you … I don’t always like the most authentic food.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know this is sacrilege, but sometimes I like the American version better. We take all these foods from all over the world, amp it up, put it on steroids. San Francisco has the best food of anywhere, I’m convinced of it.”
“How would you know,” Cole laughs. “You’ve never been to Italy.”
“That’s true,” I admit.
I must look forlorn, because Cole quickly adds, “I’ll take you.”
“I wish,” I say, trying to laugh it off.
“I mean it.”
I hesitate, my throat tightening. I have a desperate desire to visit Europe and see the most stunning art and architecture of human creation.
But I shake my head.
“You’ve done too much for me already.”
“I’ve done exactly what I want to,” Cole says, his expression stern. “Don’t try to prevent me doing more of what I want. You should know by now it’s impossible.”
I never know how to deal with Cole. He really is relentless.
I change the subject, saying, “Look at this—you can use the hot pasta water to thaw the frozen peas.”
“Genius,” Cole says, with a small smile.
When I’ve stirred the sauce into the hot noodles, and divided the two portions onto our plates, Cole twirls the carbonara around his fork and takes an experimental bite.
“Well?” I say, bouncing in my seat.
“I take back what I said. This is really fucking good.”
“Better than Italy?”
“You tell me after you try the real thing. You’re the one with the best palate.”
I flush with pleasure, attacking my own plate of food.
I’ve never enjoyed compliments as much as Cole’s. Men have always told me I was pretty, but that’s the blandest of tributes. It says nothing about me as a person.
Cole compliments my taste, my opinions, and my talents. He notices things that nobody ever bothered to notice about me before, like the fact that I can taste and smell more acutely than most people, which really does make me a better cook.
It’s the silver lining of my sensory issues. While I’m often distracted or stressed by light, sound, smell, and touch, I also take deep pleasure from music and food, rich colors and textures, and the right kind of touch on my skin. It’s a blessing and a curse. When everything is wrong, it’s pure torture. But when all goes right, it’s a gift I’d never give up.
Cole is more considerate of my sensory issues than anyone I’ve ever known. While he occasionally uses them to manipulate me, he’s never tormented me like Randall used to do. Instead, he calls me his pleasure kitten and puts me in a state of such comfortable bliss that I feel I’d do anything to be his pet and live in this house forever.
When we’re finished eating, and Cole has washed and dried the dishes in his meticulous way, and I’ve put them back exactly where they belong, he says: “I have something to show you.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me.”
He takes me into the dining room, where we never actually eat, preferring to sit at the high countertop in the kitchen.
My laptop still sits in the same place. I suppose I’ve made this my office, not that I spend much time on my computer.
Cole opens the laptop, flicking through windows so quickly that I can hardly follow what he’s doing.
Watching Cole navigate technology is eerie, his brain and fingers operating more rapidly than the machine itself.
“Have a seat,” Cole says, gesturing toward the chair next to his.
I slip into it, feeling uneasy.
When Cole has an objective in mind, he becomes highly focused to the point where he doesn’t blink and hardly seems to breathe. His face is smooth and unsmiling, his dark eyes fixed on my face.