Screwmates(33)

“I like that show,” he finally said. I was learning more and more about him, and understanding less and less. I certainly wouldn’t have been wearing those had I realized he was on his way, though. Or would I? I definitely would have been wearing the bathrobe. And would have also washed the ink stains off my right forearm. But there he was, walking through the door with a bottle of wine that appeared pretty nice to my untrained eyes.

And it wasn’t a jumbo bottle, either. Just a normal sized one. And dangling from his arm was a bag of groceries. What ho! I jumped up to help put stuff away, but he waved me off.

“Let me go throw some jeans on, at least,” I said.

“Why bother? You look comfortable. In fact, I might change into a pair of sweats myself. Can you rinse off the veggies for me?” He didn’t wait for a response, just gave me one of those devastating grins as he headed back to his room. Utterly unfair. With that smile, he could make me do absolutely anything at all. Lucky for me that he used his powers for good, and not in a Jessica Jones way.

I could barely cook, but rinsing vegetables was a skillset I possessed. One by one, I pulled things out of the bag. There was a head of lettuce, dirt still clinging to the outer leaves. Tomatoes, sun-warm and plump. Green beans, colorful peppers, and even some fuzzy green things that a quick google image search informed me were okra in their natural state.

Here I thought their natural state was deep-fried and served next to a platter of burnt end barbecue. What can I say, I’m not the farmer around the house.

I set my phone down and started drying things just as Marc walked back out. Imagine my joy when I saw that the pair of sweats he had put on apparently didn’t have a top half. The drawstring top hung loosely from his hips, allowing every bit of that farm-raised chest and abdomen to be on glorious display.

He must have noticed the way I enjoyed watching those muscles flex as he began to chop veggies and heat pans, but he was too polite to tell me to stop drooling. Soon enough, the kitchen was filling up with amazing smells and I was drooling for entirely different reasons.

“I didn’t think you were much of a cook,” I said, wondering if he’d been putting on an act at the cooking class.

“Oh, I can’t make fancy things. This is just a garden dinner.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Like your mom made.”

A slideshow of the dinners my mother had cooked over the years ran through my head. Sandwiches, frozen things, the week she’d tried out the cabbage soup diet which meant me and Dad were also on the cabbage soup diet until we mutinied with a giant Chinese takeout order…

“Yep, just like Mom,” I told him. “I’d offer to help, but you seem to have it all under control.”

“You could open the wine,” he suggested. Wine uncorking was another skill I was confident in, so I poured us each a glass. Since it wasn’t a giant bottle, I poured smaller servings. It kind of looked like how they serve it in restaurants. I admired my handiwork, and then returned to admiring Marc’s body.

“So, how were the meetings?” I asked. “Also, what were the meetings?” Truly, I should be a better roommate and ask these things in advance, I thought.

“You really want to hear about my work?” His voice was warm, like he didn’t expect me to be actually interested enough to ask. It gave me a touch of the guilt, seeing as he’d asked me plenty about my drawings.

“I do.” I sipped my wine, and handed him the head of garlic he pointed to.

“So I know I talk about the France thing like it’s all about debauchery, but I really couldn’t justify a trip there just for fun with the student loans I’m going to have to start paying soon. So I’d planned on spending a good amount of time working on research for a book I’m writing about William T. Fitzsimons and Wayne Miner.” He pulled a couple cloves off and smashed them with the flat part of his knife before peeling them.

“Who are they?” I asked. I’d have to remember that garlic trick. Much better than scrabbling at it like I probably would have.

“The first officer and last soldier to die in the Great War, as far as anyone can tell—both from Kansas City. Bookends to such a tragic time in history, and basically lost to it afterwards. Wayne Miner’s parents were born slaves, and he died fighting for our country’s continued freedom. It’s been a passion project of mine all through school, but I’ve tapped out all the research I can do in the bi-state area.” His voice was getting more animated, and he was gesturing with the knife. How did I never think to ask him about what he spent his every waking hour on up until this past few weeks?

“Plus, I just feel like I won’t be able to really write about the places they spent their last days unless I’ve been there. Pictures on the internet don’t do much as far as ambience, you know, and I am hoping my book will be more interesting than a textbook. So I need those descriptions. What it smells like, how the air feels on your skin. And who knows what I can find over there? People discover pictures and letters in old archives all the time. Could you imagine finding something no one knew existed?”

“Wow,” was all I could say. It was like Hot Marc had just cracked open and showed me Passionate Marc had been hiding inside all along. Now I not only had the guilt over not asking about his work, but also about assuming that he must be a fairly boring guy to want to spend his life teaching history.