Chapter 4 – Mushrooms and Onions
It had been freezing outside and both had been happy to get home for the rest of the day. In fact, as soon as he'd got in he'd whopped up the thermostat to get some heat in the place. That was an hour ago … and he should be making a move to turn it down to a more reasonable setting.
But he's not going to … not unless he gets called out on it! He's just going to sit here and enjoy it for as long as possible. He checks …. hmm … still not looking at him or making a fuss about it. He pops another button on his shirt, pulls the neck aside, lets a bit more air onto his chest.
It had started about fifteen minutes ago; the first onion skin. She was at the island, chopping board before her, heavy-bladed knife in hand. The mushrooms had been quickly dispensed with, caps and stems thinly sliced and scraped into the bowl. Then she'd started on the onion. She'd neatly topped it, peeled away the skin and dropped the discards into the bin. It wasn't the only discard she'd gone for. The sweater had come off and been dropped carelessly over the back of the stool.
He'd watched as the slow moving blade had sliced the onion in half then she'd set aside one half and had started delicately dicing the other. She'd used her hand and the blade to scoop up the diced onion and add it to the mushrooms in the bowl and then she'd picked up the other half of the onion and placed it on the board …. only instead of dicing it, she'd turned to the sink, rinsed and dried her hands and slowly unbuttoned her white shirt, slipping it off her shoulders and laying it over the sweater on the stool.
Now she's wearing the white camisole vest pulled out and over the waist of her jeans, her red four inch pumps clicking smartly on the wooden floor as she steps back around the island. She picks up the knife once more, takes hold of the half-onion on the board and slowly makes the lengthwise incisions before turning it and starting to slice crosswise, the swish and chop of the knife creating its own rhythm in the silence of the loft.
The diced remains are scooped up, added to the mix and she ducks her head sideways at the same time as she pushes her hair off her brow with her forearm. Once again she rinses and dries her hands, moves round the island and slowly pulls the camisole top up over her head before laying it over the shirt.
He's having difficulty in breathing because she's standing there in red, four inch pumps, black skinny jeans and black lacy bra. He's no longer sure it's the loft's heating raising the temperature in the room.
She still hasn't looked his way, still hasn't said anything to him, just the firm click-clack of heels on wood to break the silence. Now she's grabbing the bunch of fresh parsley from the glass it was placed in, lays it on the board and begins the slow, deliberate slice and swish, working her way along from tips to stem.
She sets the knife aside, scoops the parsley up between her hands and sprinkles it over the contents of the bowl. Leaning forward over the island, making him catch his breath, she removes a wooden spoon from the hollow-chef-holder and begins to slowly turn the contents of the bowl over and over in slow, steady moves …. Its mesmerising … he's not sure what is exactly … but something is.
She uses her free hand to sweep a lose strand of hair behind her ear, pauses in the slow mixing and moves back round to the front of the island. Her fingers reach for the front of her waist, he swears he almost hears the button pop, then she's leaning forwards slightly, hands reaching back and sliding the jeans down over her hips, down past her thighs, bending even further as they reach her ankles.
Something tells him he should be breathing … in, out … in, out … in, out … but not only has he forgotten how to do that simple task, the very thought when placed against the slow, sensual movements over by the kitchen island send his mind off into a much different in and out.
She's standing straight once more, left leg bent as she pulls the trouser leg free without even removing her pumps … how the hell does she even manage that?! … now the other leg is bent … the jeans are free, settling slowly over the previously discarded items on the stool … and now the steady click-clack of heels as she walks back round to the far side of the island.
The island might not exist for all he cares, the image seared in his brain as she sauntered back round behind it.
A lifetime ago she'd said "Oh, so many layers to the Beckett onion, however will you peel them all?" … not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined anything like this!