“Do you really never kiss on the mouth?” I ask, keeping my lips on his.
He continues to kiss me. “Yes,” he says between each kiss, “just you.”
If he weren’t anchoring me against his body, I’d be the first human to defy gravity and float. “Why?”
“I told you…I already have to remember sight…sound…smell…touch. I wanted the taste of my own mouth to be mine.”
“But now it’s mine too?”
“Yes—yours too.”
“Why?”
“Your favorite question.”
“Yes.”
He kisses me forever in the middle of my kitchen. No sound except our kissing, now fierce, now gentle, and his cinnamon sigh every time he tastes me. I hang on to my unanswered question with only one brain cell. The rest are absorbed with him.
“I wanted all…the fantasy with you,” he finally answers. “And as you can see, I seem unable to stop.”
“Then don’t stop,” I whisper because his answer is so terminal still.
He stops. “Ah, Elisa.” He sighs, unraveling my arms from his neck and setting them to my sides. The light in his eyes dims. He backs into the chair by the kitchen table. The strain returns to his shoulders.
“Would you like a spot of lunch?” I ask to keep him from drifting into some noble scheme of giving me up. “You must be famished after your, umm, decathlon.”
He smiles. No dimple. “Yes, thank you. I need to regroup.”
His eyes become determined. Oh no! Ceasefire, he called it. My stomach starts twisting again. I pad to the fridge for the most soporific food I can find.
“Turkey sandwiches and soup?” I call over my shoulder. Tryptophan in turkey is nowhere enough to really cause drowsiness—contrary to common belief—but combined with other protein, large quantities of food and my calming effect, it might help.
“Sure,” he says absentmindedly. I turn to look at him. He is watching me carefully. There is calculation in his eyes—the way a chess player looks at the board, thinking a few moves ahead. I take out the turkey, veggies and chicken stock, and start chopping quickly by the sink under the window.
I peek outside, surprised that the world is still the same. Calico is lounging on his spot, flicking his tail every few moments. The blossoming cherry tree scrapes against the windowpane. The pink rhododendron blooms are buzzing with bees. So much life for anything to end today. I focus my eyes on Aiden’s reflection on the window.
He is leaning back on the chair, the back of his head and shoulders resting against the wall. His eyes are closed. Bad sign.
“So you didn’t go on your trip with your friends, then?” I ask.
He opens his eyes. They roam over my bare feet, my legs, my behind—they fix there for a while—my back, my hair, and finally meet my eyes in the window. He smiles as he discovers my trick. He rises sinuously and saunters next to me.
“No,” he says. “If you must know, I’ve spent the last two nights outside your apartment, arguing with myself. I almost caved and broke in yesterday morning but then I saw you with Mr. Solis.” He picks up a tomato and my knife, and starts slicing.
I almost melt at his words, but then I understand his game. He wants to talk about it so that he can tell me his arguments. Hideous thought. “Why do you insist on calling Javier Mr. Solis?” I ask, taking another knife from the cutlery block.
“Because that’s his name.” He moves on to the carrots. He chops them better than Emeril. He probably saw it on the telly once, fifteen years ago.
“Yes, but it’s so formal. He’s family. You know, like a brother,” I say, lest this is still bothering him.
He smiles and sets down his knife. “I know. But remember what Bob said. You have to distance yourself from Javier, at least until your green card is squared away.”
“Bob said to distance myself from Feign, not Javier. I can’t stay away from the Solises. We have salsa nights and I babysit on Antonio’s therapy nights. I live there almost as much as I live here!” My voice is rising in panic.
Aiden’s jaw flexes. He takes my knife, which is pointing at the innocent mushrooms, and sets it on the cutting board. He pinches my chin. “I don’t want anything to jeopardize your immigration status, Elisa. Nothing.” The last word hisses through his clenched teeth.
I cup his face, playing with his stubble. “And I won’t let it. I’ll steer clear of Feign but not the Solises. What if my visa doesn’t go through this time either?” My voice drops to a whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly, looking like he is about to start on a barrage of arguments against Javier, ICE or himself. I change the subject to something that always seems to put him in a good mood. “And anyway, if I distanced myself from Javier, what would happen to your painting then?”
“Now that I know it can risk your future, that painting can wait forever as far I’m concerned.” He picks up his knife and flies through the rest of the vegetables.