The first thing I do when get in the kitchen is crack open a bottle of wine. And I give myself a generous pour. I’m cookin’ dinner tonight. Will is coming over for spaghetti. He invited himself. I didn’t say no.
Now, I’m a good ole’ fashioned southern woman. The first woman to pour you a glass of iced tea and lemonade. But my momma taught me how to whip up a proper bowl of spaghetti. The onions are diced with great consideration and the zucchinis from the garden are made into identical half-moons.
Will comes whistling into the door and takes a seat on the wooden chair that our neighbor Billy made for my father. He brought his guitar. Never goes anywhere without her, he told me. I watch him rub her neck up and down before warming up a tune. He said he’s too cheap to repair the sixth string but oh man does that five-string box still sound like an angel.
He starts plucking “So Doggone Lonesome,” when he asks me, “Now little wild flower, what’s the secret to a good life do you think?”
I don’t know if it’s the onions I’ve been chopping or the nature of the question which brings tears to my eyes, but one slips down my face. I can’t catch it.
I wait for a moment, studying the kitchen. Seems like I’ve got everything I need right here to me. I tell him, “A bottle of wine and a cigarette.” His eyes roll back while he’s laughing.
“Alright lady, take one of my smokes then. I just bought a pack from the shop today. Go on and live yourself a good life,” he says.
I strike a match and light one of the burners. My cigarette glows amber.
Will starts to sing. He made it up on the spot. It goes like this,
“I know a good-looking lady,
She drinks wine instead of water,
And lord knows she’s tough as nails,
I hope I never meet her father.
The way she sautés onions will make a grown man cry,
And she holds the spatula like she wants to poke out your eye,
God bless her,
My woman’s saucy,
And she knows how to use a knife,
I reckon she’d rather skin a deer instead of giving it the gift of life.
This little flower fills my heart and soul with sunshine and home-made spaghetti,
And if I don’t tell her soon,
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
Honey, take me dancing,
Take me to the moon,
Keep on cookin’ baby and I’ll sing you another tune.”
We ate spaghetti and made love that night after another cigarette.