Fiction: Tap at My Window
Title: Tap at My Window
Genre: Fiction
Words: ~1500
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for eatingthepeach, for the fourth challenge at inrevelations.
Summary: Turkeys and I do not get along very well.
-
London.
This is where the story begins.
Well, my story started in Texas. But really, it was more just a series of boring dots until I got here. London. England. Where I had wanted to move since I turned eleven and saw my first BBC miniseries (Pride and Prejudice - Colin Firth as the ever swoon-worthy Mr. Darcy, umph).
The streets were grey, as per usual, with a few optimistic flurries jumping from clouds to be whirled around by the biting breeze.
It was Christmas. Christmas day, 2009. Christmas day, 2009, and it was the day that my life changed forever.
Okay, so perhaps that is a little bit melodramatic.
So sue me.
Christmas day, 2009, was the day I met Sam.
--
Turkeys and I do not get along very well.
Oh, they’re all fine and good when they’re roaming the country side. Not so much when they’re cold, dead, slimy, and smelly, all laid out and waiting for me to stick my hand up their ass.
And I had virtually no idea what to do with it, other than what I had printed out from Google.
Of course, when I was growing up in Texas, my mom had always made Christmas dinner.
This is the only excuse I had come up with so far that had any point whatsoever of validity. I had just gone about as normal last Christmas, since I wasn’t fully unpacked, nor did I have a fully equipped kitchen.
But I’d been here over a year now.
I’d finally gotten to the point where I did not have to internally convert all the prices to dollars before I could tell if I was being ripped off or not. I had a kitchen and all the essentials. I was fully prepared to blaze on through and make the best Christmas dinner of my life. The Christmas dinner against which all future Christmas dinners would be measured.
There was nothing to do but get down to business.
Taking a deep breath, I rolled up my sleeves. Turned up the music. Washed my hands. Finally, there was nothing else to do.
The turkey’s ass awaited me.
--
A couple hours later, I was fully confident that this was going to be the Christmas dinner against which all following Christmas dinners would be measured. Just not in the way I’d hoped.
My mashed potatoes had set off the smoke alarm because I didn’t add enough water. Or remember to stir them because I was fighting with the can of cranberry sauce and my stupid safety manual can opener that seemed to dent the can in every which way other than a way that would possibly open the can like I wanted.
Defeated, I tossed the blackened potatoes into the trash before tossing the offending alarm onto the sofa. I stood in the center of the kitchen, trying to remember if I had bought enough potatoes to attempt them again. Because it just would not be Christmas without potatoes.
I looked in the cabinet. I had one left. Not enough for mashed potatoes.
This is the point where I slumped to the floor in defeat.
This is also the moment that I heard a knock.
I schlepped myself from the floor and opened the door, cringing at the site in the mirror I passed on my way there - good God, how had I gotten potatoes in my hair? - only to find a man standing on the other side.
“Hi. I don’t know if you know me, but I’m Sam. Your neighbor. I live two doors down,” at this, he stuck out his left hand out to demonstrate. “I heard a smoke alarm go off, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
I had seen him from a distance before, a couple of times. Enough to know that he was not a homicidal maniac just pretending to live in my building. But apparently not enough to really notice him. But then again, he was really kind of average looking. At least, he definitely would have been from a ways away. He didn’t have super brooding eyes or a gorgeous tan, and he didn’t tower over me. He was probably about three inches taller, 5’10” to my 5’7”, and he had light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was also kind of pale, but not in a sickly way. Just in a…British way. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But if growing up in southern Texas had done anything for me, it had gotten me accustomed to see people with deep brown, year-long tans.
Unfortunately, it had also given me a doozy of an accent. Four years of college in the North East followed by thirteen months in London had hardly done anything to change that. Unfortunately. It made people treat me like a tourist, even though I had a full intent of staying here for several more years, at the least.
Anyway. Back to Sam, the man currently standing in the doorway to my apartment.
“Oh, everything’s fine, thanks. I just had a bit of a potato catastrophe,” I said, laughing a little at how that sounded. “I’m Imogen, by the way.”
He didn’t even blanch at the accent. It made me warm to him immediately.
“Nice to meet you. Would you…like any help?”
“I could use a couple potatoes,” I said hopefully.
“No problem,” he grinned, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As promised, he returned within the minute (which I had used to clean any and all cooking ingredients from my hair), three potatoes in hand.
“These all right?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
Awkward silence ensued.
“I guess-”
“You can-”
We both paused.
“Stay. If you like. If you want to help me cook? Not that I would know why you would want to unless you were just horribly bored and wanted to prevent any sure fire damage to your apartment.”
He smiled. “That sounds like fun. I actually like cooking. Though I’m no gourmet, to say the least.”
“Trust me. You can’t be worse than me in the kitchen.”
“And two is stronger than one, right?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s get to work.”
I just have to say, it’s pretty sad when you have to start taking cooking advice from a bachelor (which I was, to be honest, hoping to be the case).
But I was desperate.
So, I handed him back the potatoes, pointed him to the peeler, and we got to work.
--
An hour or two, and countless barely-avoided disasters later, we stood together, staring at the kitchen table. A delicious looking Christmas feast awaited us.
Well, to be honest, a delicious smelling feast. The turkey looked a little pale, and some of my dishes were less than fancy-dining-worthy. But still.
Working with Sam had been a blast.
I found out that he was, in fact, single. He had been born and raised in London, and he worked in publishing. He was hilarious and charming and helpful and adorable, and I was pretty sure there was chemistry here.
And if not, well then, a pretty damn amazing friendship.
“We did it, partner.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I breathed, faux reverently.
“Sadly, there’s more truth to that than you’d like to believe.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” I retorted, flashing a smile back at him. “So, shall we sit?”
“Let’s.”
The Christmas music we had turned on - and periodically danced to (a skill at which neither of us was particularly adept, but hey, it was all in fun) - during our cooking escapade still played on in the background. Bing Crosby was crooning away, always a good choice.
We sat down and dug in.
The food was actually quite good. Not fantastic, but not bad at all. And the experience had been more than enough to make up for it.
Dinner continued. I rolled my eyes at Sam for pouring gravy on his turkey, and he made fun of me for putting cranberry sauce on my roll.
There was laughing and talking, and we had been sitting there for an hour before I even glanced at the clock. I turned back and stared at the table. There was still an immense amount of food, despite our cutting back numerous recipes to be fitting for just two people.
I leaned back in my chair, full and relaxed and more at ease than I’d felt in a long time.
He looked at me, and I looked at him. And then I did something I’d never done with my romantic life before: I jumped right in and went for it.
“So, do you…think you might want to come over again sometime? I’m gonna need help finishing all this food,” I continued with an easy, teasing grin. “And maybe after it’s gone, we could even go out somewhere? I hear there’s fantastic mashed potatoes at that place down the road.”
He just smiled.
This is where another story begins. But alas, that is a tale for another time.
I will give you one hint, though.
The smile was a good sign.
~la fin
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