It was like transient art, but with a very necessary purpose; something beautiful that was ever changing.
I wrapped up the rest of the breakfast and had started washing up when Flora quietly pushed open the kitchen door. She appeared much more put together, the sallow color of her skin from the night before replaced by something pink, energetic. Combined with the clothes I'd washed for her—fresh jeans clinging to her legs and a fitted tanktop, her jacket no where in sight—Flora could have been a new person.
“That smells amazing,” she said.
My arms elbow deep in dishwater, I looked over at the timer. “It should be ready soon. There's some fruit on the table if you're hungry.”
“Oh god, yes!” Flora exclaimed. “I haven't eaten anything that didn't come wrapped in plastic in so long.” She made a beeline to the room's small food preparation table and immediately started picking at the chunks of melon and strawberries. “I never thought I could miss something as ordinary as fruit.”
In the faint reflection of the window before me, above the wash sink, I saw her lean over the table, press her eyes shut and roll the fruit around in her mouth, savoring it. She looked extremely satisfied.
I never thought I could be jealous of strawberries.
“Should I give you two a minute alone?” I had to break the mood, I didn't want a hard-on unless I was planning to use it.
Flora opened her eyes and regarded me with confusion at the question, then strained amusement once she realized it was just a joke.
“Pass me that mixing bowl,” I continued.
“Sure,” she said, getting up. Both her eyes and mine widened when she grabbed the mixing bowl. My gun was lying right behind it.
I'd honestly forgot all about setting it there. The more stressful the time, the more I focused on cooking to escape. That would be one hell of a way to go out.
I damn near laughed out loud when a vision of me shot to death, doing dishes, flashed in my mind. Of all the ways to die, I'd have bet a lot of money that it wouldn't have been in the kitchen. Although, considering it for the first time, a part of me found that strangely comforting.
Flora hesitated, not realizing I was watching her. Her expression betrayed an inner turmoil about whether she should go for it or not. I might've been able to reach her in time if she did, but for some reason, I didn't think it would come to that. As far as she knew, I was helping her. She was getting what she wanted, in the end.
The tension cracked as she reached down. I'd washed the knives first, so on instinct, my hand closed around the next sharpest thing left in the sink—what I hoped was the world's most lethal teaspoon.
Flora's hand floated right by the nine millimeter pistol and sank back into the fruit. She plucked out a piece of honeydew melon and brought the mixing bowl to me.
I let a long, slow breath out.
Washing the spoon, I dried it, then handed it to her. “Here, you're going to need this for the soufflé.”
“You're kidding, right?” she asked, popping the fruit into her mouth.
The oven timer buzzed as if to answer on my behalf.
I quickly cleaned the bowl, dried my hands and put on a set of flowery, white and purple oven mitts. With a stone-faced expression, I clicked the oven off and replied, “I'm deadly serious.”
Smiling wide, Flora stepped to the side to allow me to open the oven door. “Wow!” she gasped in disbelief when I removed the tray that held four ceramic cups with golden-brown tops, placing them on the table. “You made this?” Her incredulous tone came off sharper than I imagined she'd meant it to.
“Ouch.”
“I'm sorry!” Flora laughed, her face reddening as she sat down. “It's just, I never expected a guy like you to be so...” She pierced the eggy cake, then looked up at me, eyebrows raised high as she tried to suppress her smile. She shrugged. “Domesticated?”
“If you're going to wound me...” I took off the mitts and snatched my pistol up off the table. I popped out the magazine to check that it actually was fully loaded. It was. I snapped it back in, clicked the safety on again and held it out to her, mockingly. “At least use the gun.”
“No thanks, I'll stick to the spoon. Less chance of blowing my own foot off.” She took a bite and let her head lull back. “This might be the best thing I've ever put in my mouth.” Flora caught the mischievous look I shot her way. She chuckled awkwardly, immediately clarifying. “Food! The best tasting food I have ever... yeah. So, uh.” She shoveled in a heaping mouthful, stalling as she searched for a way to change the subject.
“Yes?” I smiled expectantly, cruelly keeping her on the spot. I wanted to see what kind of small talk she'd come up with.