Page 92 - In Five Years

He starts piling ingredients onto the counter: onions, cilantro, jalapenos, and a
variety of vegetables.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“You can open that tequila,” he says.

He gestures with his head to the countertop, where our booze for the weekend
is artfully displayed. I find the tequila.

“Ice?” I ask. “I’ll pour.”
“Thanks.”
I take two small tumbler glasses down from the cabinet and pour a finger of
tequila in each one. I pull the ice tray out, careful to hold the bottom drawer of

the freezer when I do—another quirk of the house.
“Heads-up.” Aaron tosses me a lime. I miss, and it rolls out of the room. I’m

chasing it on my hands and knees when Bella comes floating down the stairs,
still in her blue tunic, hair now up.
“Rogue lime,” I say, snatching it before it scurries under the sofa.

“I’m starving,” she says. “What do we have?”
“Aaron is making guacamole.”
“Who?”

I shake my head. “Greg. Sorry.”
“What do you guys want to do for dinner?” Bella asks us. I follow her into the
kitchen and she snakes her arms around Aaron’s waist, kissing him on the back

of the neck. He offers her up his tequila. She shakes her head.
I know, of course, that they’ve gotten closer. That while I’ve been at work all
summer, Bella has been falling for this man. That they’ve been to museums and

outdoor concerts and cool, tiny wine bars. That they’ve walked the West Side
Highway at dusk and the Highline at sunrise and had sex on every single piece
of furniture in her brownstone. Almost. She’s told me all of it. But seeing them

now, I’m met with a prick in my chest that I’m not entirely sure how to identify.
I take a seat at the counter and pick a tortilla chip out of the bag that Aaron
has set out. He scoops some diced onions onto the back of a knife and dusts

them into the guacamole bowl.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask. Anyone with knife skills impresses me.
I like to believe it’s the one thing that prevents me from being a good cook.