It was snow white with a bodice that hugged her opulent boobs before tightly gathering at the waist and spilling down slightly below the knee. Above the hem, large pastel flowers appeared as broad strokes of an artist’s brush, the petals as wide as my hand. They drew attention to her tanned calves and slender ankles. White sandals showed off her freshly painted pink toenails. A soft, white cashmere sweater draped her shoulders as an accessory to complete the nostalgic look.
Her perfume was as light and breezy as the image she presented. I pulled a handful of daisies and wildflowers from behind my back and held them out to her.
“For you. A handful of weeds,” I said with a mischievous grin. She eyed me suspiciously before she sniffed them. I don’t know why women always feel obliged to sniff flowers. Daisies have no real scent, but she inhaled them just the same.
I led the way through the French doors to the deck. I was rather proud of my intimate dinner arrangements. The table was laid with fresh linen napkins and silver plate under liners. The centerpiece was a large crystal bowl filled with ice water and floating wheels of orange and lemon slices, interspersed with floating candles and small daisy crowns. The bulk of Summer’s bouquet of wildflowers were loosely contained in a small crystal vase.
The tiki-lamps were lit all around the deck and soft music poured through the speakers. It was a relaxing and romantic atmosphere. I seated Summer and filled two fluted glasses with chilled white wine. I selected a Pinot Blanc Alsace, the perfect accompaniment for a casual fare. I watched as she examined my culinary handiwork. I could tell she was impressed.
For appetizers, broiled jalapeno peppers stuffed with a blend of cheeses and wrapped in bacon strips. A small mescaline leaf-lettuce dinner salad with cherry tomatoes followed, topped with crumbled blue cheese, and croutons. The main course was savory chicken and pecan salad made from sautéed breast of chicken, fresh bacon bits, a trinity of raw sweet onions, bell pepper, and chives, seasoned with a hint of garlic and lemon zest and served cold as a sandwich on fresh buttered croissants. It was garnished with slices of fresh avocado bathed in lemon juice.
“It looks delicious,” Summer said warily. “What’s the occasion?”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing; just my way of saying ‘thanks’ for the new suit. Is the wine okay?”
She nodded silently and sampled the peppers.
“Fuck, Sonny…where did you learn to cook like this?” she asked with awe.
“I watch a lot of cooking shows. All those Friday nights home alone were bound to pay off sooner or later,” I said wryly.
“I doubt very seriously you spent too many nights home alone,” she said rolling her eyes at me.
“Mom sure as hell never cooked like this,” she added as she pointed her fork to her plate. “I hate cooking. It’s such a bore.”
“That’s because you go about it the wrong way,” I argued. She gave me a quizzical look.
“Cooking and sex are a lot alike. Cooking is nothing more than foreplay. Eating is the climax. The more time you put into foreplay, the more satisfying the orgasm.”