I am a creature - 1. Chapter 1 I am a creature

I am a creature

of habit.

When I come home, I unlock the door and slip off my shoes, regardless of the weather. I always step inside the house in my socked feet, shoes in hand. They will go on the sisal mat by the entrance. I grab a hanger from the wardrobe on the left side and store my coat there, if I wear one. Now I put my hat of the day on one of the many different hooks mounted on the hallway’s light blue walls. Most are double-coat-hat hooks, which means that the hat goes on the curved top hook, and the hypothetical coat on the lower, smaller hook. Some are vintage cast-iron with tips in the shape of acorns. I found them in a thrift store in France. There are white Bauhaus ceramics hooks from the 1920s, initially intended for bathrooms. The latest I rescued from an old school building. They have exchangeable, enameled little numbers. The most colorful we have are painted aluminum hooks in red, blue, yellow, purple, and green. They are from a household store in a small village in Germany. Our flashiest are the three golden polished brass hooks I bought in an antique store in Italy. For a while, people have been bringing us hooks from all over the world, now that they have learned that we got hooked on hooks. Not all of them are empty; some hold hats or ornate hangers.

Why so many hooks, you ask? It started with my friend Sandro, a hatmaker who lives in Sicily. Since I met him, I have collected hats; some are so fabulous that they need to be showcased in an ever-changing presentation. Every morning, depending on my mood, I select a hat from my numerous creations. But I digress. Habits.

In the kitchen, Breda jumps down from his lookout on the windowsill. He rubs his big head against my legs, purring loudly, thereby shedding a few long white hairs, while I put the kettle on. Next, I pick a big ceramic cup from the shelf that holds all of our multi-themed mugs. I drop two bags of camomile-vanilla-Manuka honey tea inside, pour the boiling water, and let it steep.

Breda and I go upstairs. In the bedroom, I undress and take a shower. Once I get rid of the muck I collected during my workday, I choose comfortable pants, a shirt, and a hoodie – or not, depending on the season. Sometimes I linger in front of the ceiling-high cherrywood bookshelf, where I store most of my hats. I pick one, put it on, and make faces at the mirror hanging on the wall beside it, or try a few dance steps to a song playing in my head (cha cha slide, for example). Full of anticipation, I open the antique armoire on the other side of the room, woefully ignored by Attila, who prefers to sleep on top of it. I inhale deeply and admire the collection of waistcoats.

Downstairs again, I throw the teabags into the compost bin, switch on the plate warmer and the espresso machine, grab my tea, pass through the living room, push the glass sliding doors leading to the porch open, and Breda and I wander the garden. Occasionally, I gather a few leaves of rosemary, basil, or one of the other herbs growing in the patch close to the kitchen window, and rub them between my fingers, enjoying their spicy scent. I let my hands sift through the blades of the grasses surrounding the little pond: papyrus, cattails, various bamboos, and cadex. Back on the porch, I sit down on the smooth mahogany bench and sip the now pleasantly cool tea.

My brother says I’m a stodgy old man of thirty-four. He doesn’t understand that my habits transform me into a functional human being again. Inhaling the garden’s various fragrances and the aroma of the tea, while my bare feet touch the worn wooden planks of the deck, grounds me and brings me down from my hectic days. It anchors my mind.

In summer, I watch buzzing insects and dragonflies testing the pond’s suitability for procreation. I lean back, close my eyes, and listen to the birds’ evening song. In the fall, the rustling leaves impart a sense of transience. In winter, the air is crisp, little critters rush around looking for food—Breda and I wait.

The clicking of the front door always makes me smile and feel excited. Footsteps hurrying up the stairs, the creaking bedroom door, the running shower. He’s home.

A last glance at the garden, and I get up. One of the hooks in the hallway is occupied by a cedar wood hanger and the waistcoat of the day he always chooses in the morning, depending on his mood. On the kitchen counter sits a white thermo box. A mouthwatering scent wafts through the room, and my stomach growls. A curious peek into the fridge reveals the evening’s dessert. I never know what’s for dinner. Often it is an experiment, and I am his guinea pig. Or a variation of one of my favorite pasta dishes: pear fiocchetti with brown sage butter sauce, or lasagna á la chef. There are so many possibilities; every one is delicious, and always fresh-baked bread and a pot of handmade herb butter for starters.

Bare feet on the stairs, strong arms snake around my waist, a kiss below my left ear, a few clear water drops hit my shoulder, and the tiles on the floor. Attila and Breda sniff noses as if they hadn’t seen each other the entire day, then leave the kitchen, bushy tails held high.

Silverware and glasses are selected, as well as suitable beverages. Dinner is plated perfectly, a feast for the eye and the palate. We carry it to the table, either outside or in the dining room—afterwards, dessert, and espresso.

For years, my favorite habit is Franc. Fifty-one. Thick black locks threaded with silver. Deep frown lines between slim eyebrows. So infuriating. I love to smooth them with my fingers or lips. There are creases around the eyes, too, made by infectious laughter and secret smiles. Enticing. Sexy. Prickly. Intense.

I straddle his legs, bury my fingers into his hair, and kiss him devouringly, hunting for the remnants of dark, strong, sweetened coffee and heat—the joys of dating a chef.