“Just arrabiata sauce or should I also add some cream?” he asks me, eyes fixed on the concoction spluttering in the pan. He takes his culinary assignments seriously and my opinions even more so. I respond with a monosyllable, and just like I was hoping, he keeps up his preoccupation with dinner without turning around to glance at me. Which is fortunate, because I have spent the better part of the past hour gazing at him and I do not want to be caught red-handed in the act. 

Although, I know I’m a hypocrite for acting coy. He is well aware of my roving eye. He’s letting me watch him. 

This kitchen of his is miniscule, barely enough to accommodate two people. I am standing pulse-raisingly close to him, resting my head against the door frame. The man smells like a dream and equally aromatic is the meal he is rustling up. Their combined fragrances are sheer intoxication. This is a heady moment, uncluttered by words. 

I am glad for the silence. We are both professional wordsmiths but right now, there is a delicious quiet space between us that I am in no hurry to fill. 

I wonder though, at what point does a loving gaze become an objectifying stare? Am I crossing a line? What if it had been vice versa — would I have been okay with a man, even a man of my liking, staring down my back? 

Sigh. It is difficult to resist him, but I force myself to turn away. 

I walk into the living room. He has left his shirt on the couch. I pick it up and feel its texture between my fingers, battling a strong urge to sniff it like a dog. It is a bright yellow, a color that sits on him perfectly. He likes flamboyant clothes. Sometimes, he wears printed ties on striped shirts. I’d noticed this the second time we met. The details of the design have fudged in my mind but I do remember noticing that it was a case of “print on print,” something fashion stylists solemnly advise against. 

Well, this is not the sort of man who will let some stylist tell him what to do. And the fact that he gives two hoots for approval is something I find enormously appealing. 

He is still at work, so I go right back in and offer to help. There isn’t much to do, he insists. The spaghetti is almost done. You set up the wine, I’ll get the food. 

Now, that isn’t the best task to be assigned with. I have never really explored wine. The couple of times I gave it a shot, I came away quite underwhelmed. The only drink I have any tolerance for is Scotch. And they say whiskey people and wine people are two distinct tribes that do not overlap. 

So, today, all of me is singularly hoping I begin to like wine. This is the first time in life that I’m consuming something with the express intention to like it. I feel something akin to performance anxiety. My heart is beginning to throb harder, especially because whenever I try hard not to appear clumsy, I end up falling face-first into misadventure. 

I am reminded of this famous scene from the French film Le Petit Nicolas where Nicolas’ mother is a hopeless bundle of nerves the day her husband’s boss and his wife are slated to come home for dinner. She has spent weeks preparing for this day — she has bought herself a new dress and jewels, planned a meticulous menu, and appointed a house help for the evening. She has even crammed trivia about baroque architecture and 13th-century Slovakian poetry in order to come off as a connoisseur. 

But, none of this is able to allay her self-imposed pressure to impress. 

On D-Day, she begins sipping wine early in the afternoon to soothe her frayed nerves. Sips turn into feverish gulps, and by the time the invitees arrive, she is already light-headed. 

The first blooper of the evening is when she mistakes the boss-wife to be the domestic help and shoos her away. When she realizes the mix-up, she is so mortified that she drinks some more, until she can no longer hold herself together. Eventually, she passes out mid-sentence, in front of her husband’s boss, at the dining table. Since this is a film aimed at children, she literally falls off her chair in this comical slapstick fashion. Even for an adult, it is hilarious.

I have screened this film for several batches of students. At each screening, there are yelps of laughter when this particular scene comes on. 

I can hear those classroom reactions in my mind right now, like a sitcom laughter soundtrack. What if a similar fiasco pans out here? Oh god, I should never have signed up for this. We were better off discussing the etymological commonalities between English and French. Why did I agree to join him for a round of wine tasting? It is not even a beverage that entices me. All this pretend-interest in bottled grape juice might land me in steep discomfort today.

“Ready for the meal?” he peeps out of the kitchen, interrupting my train of ominous thoughts. 

He brings out the food and puts his shirt back on. We sit down to eat. I volunteer to serve the spaghetti, while passing the wine bottle back to him. I haven’t the foggiest idea how to work a wine cork. Good thing this occurred to me well in time, otherwise I would have fumbled with it to kingdom come. 

Good job, lady. With some present-mindedness, you will hopefully manage to keep your wits in place. 

It is hard to tell which one of his attributes I’d noticed first. He isn’t someone with just one redeeming quality. He is an indivisible whole, not an assembly of parts. Some men can be summed up as “handsome” or “smart” or “charming” but this one will never be at the mercy of epithets. He has this perfect posture, self-assured gait, and impeccable communication skills. He owns a baritone that stays with me long after our conversations end. His eyes, the way they look straight into mine, can melt the proverbial glacier. 

Oh, and what do I say about the way our thoughts connect? 

Ever since we began working together, we have flowed like water. We deliberate on people and cultures. We find humor in the mundane. There is a lot of laughter — deep, full-throated, uninhibited. Sometimes, when we’re laughing heartily, he places his hand on mine. His touch takes the grief off my skin and leaves me feeling dizzy-happy. 

This is a man who knows the value of nourishing his soul. He reads, writes, and creates visual imagery with words. He is receptive of radical ideas. He never patronizes me. He values my inputs — and that, after my experiences with men so far, feels like a hard-earned win. Perhaps the reason why I dropped my guard as quickly as I did. 

The spaghetti is perfect. The accompanying vegetables are neither undercooked nor over-done; the sauce is flavorful and mellow. This is the sort of gastronomical success that can only be achieved when the chef has a heartfelt desire to serve a meal worth remembering. 

Nothing touches my soul quite like good food and intimate conversation. Tonight, we have both. I’m starting to feel more settled. I’m finding the right words, smiling easily. 

As conversation veers to the people we’ve loved, I tell him that most interactions I’ve had with men my age have felt deliberate and labored to begin with. When you meet people with the specific intent to like and be liked, there is tremendous pressure to say the right things. It is soul-sucking, I tell him. Those chats are a means to an end. They’re meant to lead you someplace, usually the altar. Should you meander midway, chances are you’ve lost the game. The whole charade feels transactional and shallow. 

He smiles knowingly. 

Which is why, he replies, it is exhilarating to converse with people you’re not looking to acquire, isn’t it? When the purpose of conversation is conversation itself, there is nothing at stake. There are no ulterior motives. You’re not itching to impress. You can afford to speak your mind. Isn’t that liberating? 

I nod in agreement. At this point, my hesitation has entirely melted away. 

As for the wine, it is a slow love. It wouldn’t be correct to say that Chardonnay and I hit it off immediately, but I definitely do warm up to it after a few sips. It helps that the drink here only serves to accentuate the talking, and not vice versa. There is so much to explore — the whats and whys of two long lives, and how they came to be the people they have become. 

He tells me about his years in France — particularly the struggle to grasp the language, given the way words roll off the French tongue. He tells me about the time he wanted to tell a waiter that he was feeling really cold (“J’ai froid”), but erroneously ended up approving an order for an exorbitant foie gras. He says he finds the Eiffel Tower over-rated, and I giggle. He shows me pictures of some wonderful street art he captured in Parisian by-lanes. I recognize Montmartre in some of the images. I am a long-time teacher of French but have never been to France, so his pictures leave me pining for a romantic adventure. 

The evening slips by, unnoticed. I feel like I can spend any amount of time in the blissful company of this man. He feels like an extension of me, as if mine for the taking. 

At some point of time though, his face begins to blur. I’m guessing I’ve overdone the wine, which is funny considering I’ve only had two glasses so far. For someone who is used to the aggression of hard liquor, this hardly amounts to anything. 

Is that a leftover olive on his plate? Or a black grape? I can’t tell. 

I try to keep a stronger hold on my fork, but it seems to be slipping. My food looks like a vague blotch now, and the contours of his body are blending in with the room. 

“Hey, are also you feeling a little funny?” I ask, wondering if this is a particularly potent wine, because there is no other way it could have this impact on a seasoned drinker. 

“No,” he says, and for the first time this evening, his smile appears different. It doesn’t look benign any more. 

I’m feeling woozy now. I want to tell him that the room is spinning, and that if I’m not held in place, I might soon fall off the table, much like Nicolas’ mother, albeit this wouldn’t be an attempt at kiddie humor. I want him to come hold me, because it appears that I am in dire need of help, but no words emerge from my mouth. It feels like my senses are abandoning me. 

He has realized it. Without a word, he sets his cutlery aside, gets up from the other side of the table, and lifts me up with both hands. 

Err, that’s okay, I try to say. You should just lead me to the couch, I’ll be fine. But for some reason, my words are slurring and don’t seem to register with him, even though his ear is less than a foot away from my mouth. He seems to be taking me into his bedroom. 

Perhaps he feels that will be more comfortable. 

He lays me gently on his bed, takes off my shoes, and unbuttons my coat. Around this time, my eyelids droop. I don’t quite know what happens after that, but my last vision of us is him on top of me, his eyes staring into mine, like those of a wolf about to devour a lamb.