One night, as I cleaned the kitchen and considered retiring for the night, a gentle knock startled me. I leaned back from the sink to peek at whoever requested my presence. The frame was masculine and unfamiliar. It was only 8:30 but still too late for stranger shenanigans. As I approached the door, his handsome features attempted to disarm me, but I remained guarded. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place his face. The crows feet sprouting from his eyes warned me of our age difference. I greeted him skeptically, although I was totally checking him out. I also told him I had a SimRay in the umbrella rack; I lied.
This fool began his explanation for his sudden appearance by saying he wasn’t a stalker. Crazy people are everywhere, and Sulani doesn’t have law enforcement roaming the streets like other cities. Maybe I should invest in a SimRay. It’s not like I don’t have the money, thanks to the investments I made in my previous life.
Winston was his name, and he claimed to work at the bar I frequent and overheard me talking on the phone
about red velvet cupcakes I made
a few weeks ago. Last week, he was out for a stroll and saw me on the boardwalk leading to my house. That night, he finally worked up the nerve to come over and ask me for the recipe. That story was so crazy it had to be true, so invited him in. Did I mention he was fine?
I offered a beverage, but he declined and complimented my home. At least he had manners. The recipe in question had been in the Pope family for generations. I made those cupcakes more times than I could count, and the recipe is ingrained in my brain. I rattled it off for him to type in his phone; he seemed impressed. “You don’t use butter?” he asked. That ignited the great debate. Any baker worth their salt knows cooking oil is the key to rich, moist red velvet cake, and butter makes for a drier texture. We debated this for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps I prejudged him, but he proved more knowledgeable than I gave him credit. We debated a good many things, actually.
After a round or two, it felt more like a game. Like we were trying to one up each other and expend every ounce of knowledge in our brains to prove we were smarter than the other. I enjoyed the challenge. He did too, otherwise he would have excused himself hours ago. When I got the courage to check the time, it was way past my bedtime. He said goodnight and suggested we do that again at a more decent hour…maybe over drinks.
I felt dazed. Never in my life had I met a man who stimulated me intellectually. Seriously. Never! I always felt like I needed to dumb myself down for the idiots I used to mess with. The connections were physical or emotional, but never mental. The crazy part is there was no flirting involved. None! Not one compliment, but somehow I still had butterflies in my stomach. I think I’m in trouble.
