“It’s so good to see you, big brother,” she said. “Happy Birthday.”
“It’s good to see you too, Emma,” Aaron said. “Really good.”
Emma turned, and Aaron followed her into her apartment. To his chagrin, he caught himself glancing at her trim, round bottom molded by the little skirt.
As soon as he stepped into the apartment he was hit by the heat and the scent coming from the kitchen. Pungent smells of onions and spices swirled in hot, humid air. Aaron loved food — good food. He had little time for it while he was kept busy by his internship duties. The aroma coming from Emma’s kitchen immediately set off a wave of grumbling in his stomach.
Aaron could smell the kitchen, but he could not see it. He walked into the small living room of Emma’s apartment. Aaron looked around. On the outside the building was not much to look at, but once inside he could tell the landlord had taken steps to update the interior. The plaster walls were smooth and white, and they were trimmed in freshly stained wood. Aaron was impressed that Emma could afford such a nice apartment. He was struck, too, by the care with which she had decorated it. She liked color, obviously. Chairs, sofas, lamps, and assorted bric-a-brac displayed every hue of the rainbow, but somehow Emma had brought all the colors together with a skilled eye. Emma’s fondness for color contrasted with Aaron’s preference for the monochrome — his own home was done up mostly in gray and white and muted earth tones.
When Aaron was done taking in his surroundings he turned to Emma, who was staring at him.
“You have a roommate, right?” Aaron asked. “Is she around?”
“Nope,” Emma said. “Riley’s away for the weekend. Visiting her brother. It’s just us.”
“Well, I feel special,” Aaron said. “Whatever you’re cooking smells fantastic.”
“Why don’t you come in and see,” Emma said. She pivoted, and Aaron followed her into the kitchen, his eyes again glancing at her butt and at the hem of the little skirt against the backs of her lean thighs. He shook his head.
I’ve got to stop doing that, he thought.
The kitchen was bright and colorful, like the rest of the apartment. It was small, a narrow rectangle of black and white floor tiles in a checkerboard pattern with the stove and cupboards on one side and sink and refrigerator on the other. Emma used her limited space to maximum effect. The kitchen brimmed with pots and pans and bottles of spices and colorful vegetables everywhere, but the placement of everything seemed orderly, not chaotic.
Emma knew her way around a kitchen. She always had. Aaron remembered Emma as a child, her eyes barely reaching counter level, begging their mother to let her cook. Mom let her. By the time she was in middle school Emma was a better cook than their mom, although Aaron would never have told his mom that. Mom did not seem to mind; she liked ceding the kitchen duties to her young, eager daughter, whose enthusiasm for cooking gave mom a chance to relax. For Emma, cooking was not a daily chore; it was a passion and an art.