The Swan of Tuonela - 5. "And I can cook too..."

By the end of the week, Chloe thought she would throttle Phillip. On Tuesday, he and Mark had made a dinner date for Friday, and that’s all Phillip had talked about since. She was standing in his office on the afternoon of the big day.

“So do you have your menu planned?” she asked.

“Just printing off my grocery list now.” Phillip clicked a few more keys and the ink jet printer started clattering.

“What are you having?”

Phillip reached over and picked up the piece of paper that was exiting the printer. He read off the list. “Salmon poached in white wine. Tomato and Belgian endive salad with raspberry vinaigrette. English peas with paprika (only because I love English peas, he added). And fresh strawberries with Romanov sauce for desert.”

“Shit. I wish you’d try to impress me like that some time.”

“Well it’s a special occasion.”

“Really? What?”

“It’s our one month anniversary,” he said proudly. “Or it will be on Sunday, I guess.”

“My gosh, has it been a month already?!” Chloe teased him. “This must be some kind of record.”

Phillip looked at her over the top of his glasses. “What time is it?” he asked. Phillip never wore a watch except when he was teaching a class.

“About four-thirty, I think.”

“Oh Jeez, I’ve got to go. I have to run by the grocery store still, and Mark is coming at 7:00.” Phillip laid the sheet of paper on the top of the file cabinet. He picked up his briefcase, opened it, and threw a stack of papers in.

“And flowers. I need to get flowers,” he muttered to himself.

Chloe smiled, shook her head, and leaned against the desk, enjoying the show.

“And wine. I still need to get the wine,” Phillip said. “Let’s see. Salmon and endive. White, I guess.”

“Phillip?” Melissa, Phillip’s manager, was standing in the doorway. She had been standing there for a minute or two.

“Yes?”

“Status report?”

“Oh crap! Yes, I have it. I’m sorry, I just need to send it to you.” He flopped down into the chair and started typing furiously. Finally, he hit the Enter key. “OK, it’s sent.”

Melissa and Chloe exchanged looks.

“Hot dinner guest,” Chloe said by way of explanation.

Melissa smiled. “Well, good luck,” she said and turned and headed down the hall.

Chloe was shaking her head, amused. She watched Phillip close his briefcase, pick up his gym bag, turn off his PC and head for the door. She considered for a moment and then smiled.

“Phillip?”

“Yes,” he said turning around.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” she said, picking up the grocery list from the top of the cabinet.

“Thanks,” he said as he grabbed the slip of paper and headed out the door.

                                                                        *  *  *  * 

The dinner was nice in spite of the bread that Phillip burned. Mark was a little uncertain of the endive, but attacked the salmon. And now they were finishing off the wine and strawberries. Or rather Phillip was finishing off the wine. He hadn’t realized that Mark drank only beer when he drank anything, which was rare.

Mark was telling Phillip about how the airplanes were scheduled for maintenance and what tasks it involved. In his excitement, he had grabbed a piece of paper and was diagramming something. Phillip wasn’t much interested so he kept quiet and acted absorbed. Besides, it allowed him to watch Mark - the way he furrowed his brow and brought the crooked index finger of his right hand up to his mouth when he thought seriously about something, the way his face brightened when he talked of old school memories, the way the edges of his eyes crinkled as he smiled when talking about his friends at work. Phillip wondered if Mark would ever let him meet any of his work friends. He wondered if any of Mark’s work friends knew about his personal life. He hoped so. He knew how hard work could be if you didn’t have any friends with whom you could be yourself. But he finally decided that the answer to all the questions was probably no. So he sat just looking at Mark, only halfway listening to what he was saying. Mark was wearing a yellow Polo shirt with the sleeves back. Not back as in shoved back but back as in folded back stiffly and properly. Phillip watched the muscles in Mark’s arms glide smoothly against each other as Mark gestured and drew pictures in the air during his explanations; he followed with his eyes the pale blue veins that creased Mark’s translucent skin.

Once Mark had run out of schedules and maintenance procedures to explain, Phillip got up, went into the kitchen, and emptied the rest of the wine into his glass. Mark went to the bathroom, so Phillip started cleaning dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. In the middle of scraping plates and in spite of the running faucet, he heard the thump of Siegfried scampering across the floor. He decided that Mark must have returned and that they were playing fetch. He laid the dish rag on the sink divider and walked out of the kitchen to look into the living room. He smiled watching Mark throw the ball to Siegfried and then try and pull the ball out of Siegfried’s mouth when the dog brought it back to him. “Arrggh…” Mark growled closely into Siegfried’s face as he pulled at the ball from side to side and shook his head and pretended to be another dog. Siegfried growled low and threateningly in response. Phillip smiled and returned to the kitchen to finish loading the dishwasher. Mark threw the ball one last time and watched as Siegfried scampered down the hallway. He stood and walked around the room, touching each of the four bookcases crammed with books and records.

“So how many books do you have?”

“More than I even remember,” Phillip answered, pouring soap into the slot in the dishwasher door.

“Have you read them all?”

“Most of them, I guess. Not all, though. OK, you’ve discovered my addiction. I go to used book stores and buy armfuls, thoroughly intending to read them some time, just never getting around to it. And my second addiction is not being about to get rid of any,” Phillip laughed from the kitchen, closing the dishwasher door.

Mark replaced the book with the funny looking letters (Geschichte der deutschen Literatur,printed in 1923, using the old Fraktur font) back on the shelf. He sat back on the sofa and continued looking around the apartment. “What language is this poster in? German?”

“Which poster?” Phillip asked, turning off the water in the sink.

“The one over the TV.”

“Yeah, it’s in German. I picked it up in Vienna,” Phillip said as he wiped his hands on the dishrag. “I made my big trip to Europe last summer. Airfare was so cheap, and the dollar was so strong, I couldn’t resist. And I’d been dreaming of going there for years. There was a really interesting exhibition at one of the museums on turn of the century Vienna. I bought that poster and then had to schlep it around in my backpack for two more weeks until I came home (Phillip wondered if he should also mention having had to schlep around the bottle of champagne that the first class flight attendant had given him on the flight over. He decided against it.). I’m surprised it even survived.”

“I’ve never been farther away from home than Houston. I can’t imagine what Europe must be like.”

“Oh, it’s not all that exotic,” Phillip said. “And everyone I met was excited that I was from Dallas. The TV series is evidently very popular over there. These German tourists I met in Venice were just sure that I must know J.R. Ewing personally.”

“I suppose,” Mark laughed and continued to look around. “Nice bike.”

“Yeah, I’ve had that Bianchi for ten years,” Phillip said, coming back into the living room. “I love it. It’s got several thousand miles logged on it.”

“Mine isn’t quite so well traveled,” Mark said and grinned, looking up at Phillip (God, that grin again, Phillip thought). “I just ride it around the neighborhood when the weather is nice.”

“Well, we should go riding sometime, then.”

“That would be fun.” Mark said and paused, considering his schedule for the next few days. “I have to work Saturday. Sunday?”

“That works. How about the afternoon? We can go out to the lake.”

“It’s a date then.”