Drew can cook.

I wouldn’t have really guessed this from someone who primarily wears concert t-shirts, Dickies shorts and beanies. I may be judgmental, but my expectations have often proved correct in the past. I feel shallow now, as if my biases might have worked against me on more than one occasion.

He picked me up around five thirty and took me directly to his apartment. After he turned the key into the lock and opened the door, I could feel the reggae spilling out of his bedroom like warm caramel. I smiled and hugged him from behind as he divulged that his roommate was out of town for the next week or so and we had the whole place to ourselves.

He spun me around, dipping me till I hit the floor, grinning. Slipped me the tongue. I could tell it was going to be a good night.

We took a few shots of Jagermeister and hit the kitchen. He was attempting a vodka sauce, one of my all-time favorites but nothing he had ever cooked before. It was very charming, watching him go back and forth from his computer, analyzing the recipe, scratching his head, watching confusion turn to realization and eventually deciding to not rely on the recipe.

He leaned against the sink. “A cook just cooks, right?”

I wrapped an arm around his neck, letting the other arm fall. “Right.” I slowly unzipped his pants, letting the teeth open one by one, freeing him…

A few minutes later, the vodka-induced flames leapt higher than originally anticipated, causing a peculiar aroma and the fire alarm to ring. Laughing, pants around his ankles, he took the pan off the stove and onto the countertop, shaking it, putting out the fire. “It’s melting the fucking microwave!” I giggled at the singed white plastic, also smoking.

I’m sure it must have been quite a scene, my half-naked self standing just below the smoke detector, waving a broom. By the time the alarm stopped ringing, Drew had become decent and was saving the sauce, adding some cream, and dropping the angel hair pasta into boiling water. He poked his head out of the kitchen, smiling wickedly as I ran to fetch my clothes.

By the time we sat down to dine, not only did we have a bewitching dinner but a good story too. He poured us two glasses of Chianti and served us both. Even though we had had a debacle, the food tasted lovely and I was honestly surprised by how perfectly the shrimp was cooked and how lush and creamy the sauce had become, considering it had been on fire less than thirty minutes previously.

It’s funny; sometimes he decides to play the boyfriend role to a tee. When I think of him negatively, it’s hard to do it for very long because this side pops out from time to time.

We clinked glasses. “Babe, when’s your birthday, really?”

He chuckled. “It was Monday.”


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