Keats nods. In his expensive tailored suit, he looks so out of place in my condemned little flat. More like my landlord than my guest—especially with my ex-roommate’s indie band posters still on the walls, my collection of incense holders, and on the worn carpet, the beanbags—instead of a real sofa—for plopping on while staring at the TV.
“I’m buying real furniture when I move into my own home.” I’m so weak for justifying my existence to him. But it’s important to me that I don’t come off as a big loser who still lives like a teenager. “I’ve been putting all my website earnings into a savings account I don’t touch. I—” I stop, realising too late that I’ve revealed too much.
“You have a website? What’s it for?” he asks, brows lifting in interest.
I shift in my seat, the Styrofoam beans crunching beneath my butt. “Just advice and stuff for women.” He seems appeased by my vague reply, but I hurry on before he can ask more questions. “I am so close to putting down a small deposit on my very own home and being able to furnish it. I just might make it before they tear this all down to build another underground busway.”
“When are they demolishing this place?” And just like that, I am out of the woods and safe from the slippery slope of answering questions about my raunchy webpage.
“January next year.” My stomach clenches at the reminder of my impending eviction. Rent here is dirt cheap, so moving to another rental place would greatly affect how much I can save per month. I’ve always lived in rentals—having my own house is the dream. Maybe it would finally make me feel settled and secure.
“Would you like something to drink?” I get up with as much grace as the beanbag would allow. “I’ve got water, juice, beer, wine, vodka, gin, whisky—”
“Beer’s fine,” he answers, interrupting my spiel as he shrugs off his suit jacket, and drapes it neatly on the back of a kitchen chair. Next, he lifts his chin and loosens his tie, undoing the top button on his light business shirt.
It takes me a beat to grab his drink, fixated on the mini-strip show he was in the process of performing. I hand the bottle to him, and he perches himself on one of my mismatched bar stools—both kerb-side rescues. For the first time since Isabella’s first visit to my then childhood home, I notice every scratch and dent on my beat-up furniture, and feel inadequate about my living conditions.
“Have you had dinner? If you want, we can order in,” I offer, trying to tidy the kitchen bench by piling my neglected mail into an uneven stack.
“Or we could cook something?” he suggests.
I almost snort, the sound thankfully remaining a scoff. “There’s nothing in the fridge.” My next food delivery is in the morning. I have a single serve container of skim milk to go with my salt-reduced bran—cardboard—cereal for breakfast.
“You practically live above a supermarket.”
There’s an IGA two doors down at street level.
That reminds me…“There’s fish and chips downstairs,” I suggest.
“I’ve been eating out the last few nights.”
“Dates?” I can’t help but ask.
“Yeah. With Linda.” He fixes me with his bedroom eyes as if watching for my reaction.
Ouch. I look away before I flinch. I’m almost sure I manage to keep my poker face in place while I pretend to rifle through the takeaway menus stuck to the fridge with magnets.
“Oh. So, you’re off Isabella?” I keep my face averted from him but I look over my shoulder when he starts laughing.
“I was kidding—I’ve been eating out a lot because of work. Like at my desk. Alone. God, weren’t you there at the bridal thingy? Talk about ‘saying it with flowers’. You think I’d go back to that?”
“Well, you do seem like a sucker for punishment,” I reply with an irrepressible smile.
“Not that kind of punishment.”
A mental picture of a dominatrix whip flashes in my mind’s eye, heating me all over like melted candlewax. I release a calming breath. Maybe I shouldn’t check out my website just before he comes over to visit. When my eyes return to Keats, he flashes me his wide grin. His eyes crinkle at the corners like his mind is on the same track as mine.
“Let’s grab some ingredients.” He jumps off the stool. “I’m starving.”
We’re almost out the door when I blurt out, “I don’t cook.”
He stops in his tracks. “Seriously?”
I hope this doesn’t put him off me, but I either tell him now or he finds out when he’s dying from carbon poisoning—I burn everything. My father was more the pre-cooked meals kind of parent, so I never learnt culinary skills beyond pressing buttons on a microwave.
“That’s fine. I’ll throw something together.” Keats resumes walking.
In the supermarket, I follow him to the produce section, not a place I often find myself in. Natural colours assail me, while the cool touch of the refrigerated section tickles my bare arms.
It’s fascinating how picky he is with every bit of produce he touches. He turns each around in his hand, feels their weight, and inspects their colour before deigning any fit for his basket. I’m sure it’s some kind of OCD. The few occasions I bought vegetables, I just got whatever was on special and grabbed the first ones I laid my hands on.
“You got oyster sauce?”
I shake my head.
He raises a brow at me.
“Don’t judge me,” I say with a smile.
Ten minutes later, I’m not smiling when the checkout guy tells us the total of our basket.
Damn. That added up quickly. I sigh as I take my wallet out.
“My treat,” Keats says, waving away my
