Clay

All four burners are on at once, sending little spasms of alarm through my body. I stare at the stove as each pot bubbles rambunctiously, chewing my lower lip.

“This is fine, right? I’m sure this is fine,” I mutter to myself, scowling.

Tearing open the cardboard box of pasta, I measure out a healthy handful just like my mother taught me. I’m sure this is enough for Ryan and me. As sure as I can be. Anyway, if he’s still hungry, he can always fill up on salad and garlic bread…

Oh shit! The frickin’ garlic bread!

Spiking the pasta noodles into the boiling water, I fling open the oven door milliseconds before the loaves go up in flames. They look like charcoal briquette skis, neatly lined up on my battered and rusty cookie sheet. Acrid curls of smoke waft up toward my face, burning the inside of my nose.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit, ow, crap!”

My hand jerks back automatically when I reach for the pan without an oven mitt. My fingers drift toward my tongue, already stinging as I realize I didn’t even set a timer for the spaghetti. How long has it been? A minute? Ninety seconds?

Sighing, I twist the oven knob to turn it off and just kick the door closed with the charcoal skis inside. I’m sure I can clean that up tomorrow. Whatever.

The bottle of wine that I convinced my neighbor—okay, bribed my neighbor—to buy for me at the liquor store stares at me from the counter. I really would like a sip of wine right now. That seems like the appropriate course of action when you’re on the verge of ruining dinner, right? A nice glass of wine as the ship goes down in flames? Sounds positively Mayberry-esque.

But of course I can’t forget that wine represents what were the last pennies in my food budget for the month. I’m going to be eating ramen and hard-boiled eggs for another six days because of it. I can’t waste a drop.

Shrugging, I stab the timer button with my thumb to give myself six minutes before I’m going to check the pasta. Six minutes sounds about right, I figure. I can always taste it. I know what a noodle is supposed to taste like. Of all the food groups, it’s definitely the one I am the most comfortable with. How can I screw it up? It’s just water and noodles. It’s not rocket science.

Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m already late. It’s 7:05, and our date should have started five minutes ago. Hurriedly I stuff the pasta box back into the cabinet and shove the half jar of premade sauce to the back of the refrigerator. I don’t know if he’s the sort of guy who would care that this is grocery store marinara, but I want everything to be nice. I grab the Italian sausages out of the boiling water and transfer them to a sauté pan where they instantly start to snap and sizzle, hopefully on not too high of a flame. The last thing I need are charcoal briquette UFOs that I will have to hide in the oven with the skis.

“Please, just be okay, guys? Please don’t burn.”

Pivoting on my heel in the tiny kitchen, I grab the wine bottle and salad bowl and place them in the middle of the small, Formica table. I don’t have any candles, but at this point I figure more open flames isn’t going to save me anyway. I’ve got some bottled blue cheese dressing that I hope is good enough too. I mean, I hope the whole thing is good enough.

Slinky red dress? Check. Well, I guess everything is sort of slinky on a body that’s built like an actual toy spring. Mom keeps reassuring me my “figure will come in,” like I’m a row of underperforming tomato plants or something in a garden.

Wine? Check. Romantic lighting? Close enough. Handsome date? Well, sure, if he ever gets here.

Way too fast, the timer goes off and I dump the pasta into the colander in the sink to drain it. The steam billows back up into my face, and I can feel my hair going frizzy around my ears. Oh well. I wonder what I look like right now? But there’s no time to find out! I have to stay focused on the mission.

At 7:15, I heave a sigh of relief. Everything is done. The corkscrew is right next to the bottle. Ryan can open it for us. I smile to myself, imagining this masculine gesture on his part. He can pour the wine. Maybe propose a toast? That would be nice.

At 7:25, I put a plate over the spaghetti in the colander so it doesn’t get too cold and gummy, then turn off the other burners. The Italian sausage looks great, and my jaw aches as my mouth waters. Actually it all looks perfect. Sure, there’s no bread, but this is good! This is a proper, full-fledged, romantic dinner.

I did it.

Yay, me.

At 7:40, I take a seat on the sofa. I’m pretty sure I told him seven o’clock. I must have? Yes. I specifically told him seven o’clock, and I knew his shift at the DQ ended at six, and I figured he would want time to clean up before he came over.

I could probably call the DQ, but if he’s already gone, what are they going to tell me? And they will probably just laugh at me for trying to track him down. I’m not that kind of girlfriend. It’s the new millennium. We are very modern people.

At 8:00, I flip on the TV. We had planned to watch Scary Movie after dinner anyway. When he shows up, I can catch him up.

But it’s really hard to concentrate. Carmen Electra keeps choosing the exact wrong thing to do during the chase scene, and it should be hilarious, but I can’t really keep my mind on that. Should I be looking for him? Should I be worried? I am worried. I can’t help it. It’s probably just a misunderstanding, I keep telling myself.

Suddenly I hear the dog across the hallway begin to bark and a few shuffling footsteps outside my apartment door. My chest gets very tight as I walk to the door, wondering what I’m going to say. Should I freak out? Should I be relieved?

Just be cool, I tell myself. Maybe try to pretend you hadn’t even noticed he’s almost two hours late?

His hand hovers in midair, poised to knock when I open the door. Immediately he gives me that slanted smile, the one that generally melts my panties right off. This time, my panties refuse to budge.

“Hey there, Copper Top,” he smirks. I notice the nickname grates on me instead of charming me like usual. “What smells so good? Is that you?”

I open my mouth to answer but then choke the words back as he stumbles into my tiny living room, squinting toward the kitchenette. A waft of pungent herb smell rolls over me.

“Oh, wow, you made dinner,” he sighs vaguely.

“Have you been smoking pot?” I ask, genuinely confused.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Why? You want to turn me in?” he snarks.

“No… It’s just that…” I stammer, totally flummoxed as he pivots from left to right, taking in the mess in the kitchen, the set table, and the bottle of wine.

It’s just that I made you dinner! I scream inwardly. For our date! That you have apparently blown off!

“Are you okay?” he squints at me. “Your cheeks are all red. Have you been cooking?”

“I’ve been—” I start, but the words won’t come out. “Where were you? I thought you got off work at six? Like three hours ago?”

He rocks back a little, pulling an exaggerated grimace. “Where have I been?” he repeats mockingly. “Have I been smoking pot? What are you, my parole officer?”

“Of course not,” I snort. “It’s just that I thought—”

“Why don’t you arrest me, officer?” he continues, walking toward me with his wrists extended as though ready to be handcuffed.

“Ryan, quit it,” I shrug, walking past him.

I snatch the bottle of wine off the table and push it to the back of the counter. For some reason, I don’t feel like letting him open it anymore. Turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean my hips against the kitchen counter to look at him. He is smiling vaguely, twisting in slow-motion toward the television.

“Oh, hey, Scary Movie is on,” he smiles as he shuffles toward the couch. “Hey, you already started. Weren’t we going to watch this together?”

He sits on the sofa and stares at the TV for thirty seconds or so before glancing back up at me. Then his expression changes, and he glances back at the TV, and then back at me.

“Oh, wait, no,” he mumbles to himself as he looks around.

I don’t say anything. I just watch him like he’s my very own TV show, in the scene where the main character realizes her life is a ridiculous lie.

“Oh, shit, Penny,” he sighs. “You made dinner.”

“Yes I did,” I swallow, my mouth dry.

“We had a date tonight,” he says out loud, stupidly.

“Well, we did,” I shrug. “About two hours ago.”

On my personal TV show, the love interest squeegees his reddened eyeballs like a cartoon character with his fists and heaves a sigh. The main character flips through her personal Rolodex of witty things to say, unable to pick one.

“Okay, I’m an asshole,” he finally nods.

In this TV show, I don’t have any stage directions. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I already burnt one half of dinner, and the other half is a solid mass in a colander in the sink. Lettuce leaves are wilted. Bottled salad dressing is now room temperature. The TV screams comically in the background.

I can’t move. I feel completely abandoned. This was supposed to be a really nice night. Now it’s all jacked up, and the person who jacked it up is too high to even try to fix it.

“Well, I should go,” he sighs dramatically, slapping his knees before he stands up.

Despite myself, I am surprised.

That was a plot twist, I think. I could have kicked him out. I could have read him the riot act. I could have smashed a plate at his feet.

But no. I didn’t do anything.

He squints at me sideways. “I guess we both knew this was coming, right, Copper Top?” he finally drawls, puffing up his chest before he walks to the door and opens it again.

No, we didn’t, I say to myself as the door closes behind him. Actually, we didn’t see that coming at all.