A Dinner Date with Rachel

I didn't always love to cook.

In my younger years, railing against the traditional views of my family, I had taken pride in loudly eschewing anything domestic. I was going to be a writer, a true artist, living on scraps as I channelled divine inspiration onto the page.

When I am cooking now, dropping into the familiar, meditative comfort of chopping vegetables, moving smoothly through the kitchen, measuring, stirring, tasting, my mind often drifts to Rachel.

Rachel, lovely Rachel, who looked at me on a cold, blustery night and saw who I was, long before I did.

She knew I would cook, one day, she knew I would write, and she knew so much more. Rachel, my muse.

Where is she now?

*****

Rachel lived on the main floor of a house that had been converted into a duplex, and the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the French doors that opened onto the garden, blanketed now in snow.

I pushed my toque and mittens into the pockets of my heavy parka, stamping snow onto the doormat. I shrugged out of my snow flecked coat and Rachel took it from me to hang in the closet. I bent down to unlace my boots.

"God, it's cold out there!" My fingers felt numb and clumsy as they worked at the laces.

"I can't believe you walked over here, Amy!"

I shrugged. "On a night like this it takes longer to wait for the bus, and I hate standing still in the cold." I cupped my frozen cheeks in my hands, which were only slightly warmer. They must have been red, like berries.

"Well, I'm so glad we were finally able to do this. Come in!" She led me to the living room and gestured towards the squashy sofa. "Can I get you something to drink? I'm having a beer, but I know you're not much of a beer fan. I have a mediocre red?"

I laughed. "A mediocre red suits me fine. I won't even know the difference."

Rachel laughed too and disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with her beer and my glass of wine, settling into the couch beside me.

An hour flew by. We talked about school, our passion for art. We were both in the MFA programme, her for music, me for writing. It was such an easy ebb and flow of conversation, like it always was when we were together.

It seemed impossible that we'd only known each other a few months. We'd clicked right away at the first pub night for graduate students.

I knew we'd go our separate ways after we graduated. I didn't know where I'd end up, but she'd go back to the east coast. Her voice had that lazy pace and charming twang of a born and bred Maritimer, and I knew she'd never entertain living anywhere else. But I also knew that if we met again after decades apart, we'd fall into the same flowing conversation as if no time had passed.

She was so hypnotising, Rachel. I found my eyes constantly drawn to her face, even when there was a crowd of people in the room. I described her once to a male classmate, and I said "You know Rachel: about five-three, wavy brown hair, brown eyes? Really beautiful? She plays piano?

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Yeah, I know her. I don't know that I'd say she's beautiful, though."

Men. Honestly.

Rachel looked at her watch and stood up. "I'd better start cooking. Join me in the kitchen?"

I got up and followed her. She got another beer from the fridge, and poured me another glass of red. She clunked the neck of her beer bottle against the rim of my glass.

"Cheers, Amy." She looked up at me, smiling her open, wide grin and took a swig from the bottle. Her brown eyes were so dark they looked like molten chocolate, but they twinkled all the same.

I watched her as she bustled around the kitchen. She was just so effortlessly cool. There was so much energy vibrating from her tiny frame; it was as if you could feel warmth radiating from her. Her feet were bare, a defiant freedom against the cold wind outside, and she wore a soft white tee shirt and stylishly shredded jeans. Her hair fell below her shoulders, darker than mine but not quite as long.

In some ways, we were similar; similar interests, similar life goals, even similar colouring, although that's where our physical differences ended. I was long and lithe where she was small and compact. One day while we were eating lunch, she made me hold up my hand, and she pressed her fingers against mine, palm to palm.

"Your hands are beautiful," she sighed. "Look at those long fingers, the stretch you have! You should have been a pianist. You're wasted in the writing programme."

"You're right!" I teased. "Forget writing. It's all music now. Should I audition with "Chopsticks" or "Heart and Soul?"

She was three years older than me, having taken time off to work between high school and undergrad and again between undergrad and graduate school. I had gone straight through school without stopping. I envied her adventures.

Those years between us seemed like a lifetime of difference: she was so much more worldly and confident than I was. She'd travelled, really travelled, and was truly independent from her parents in a way that I wasn't - not yet, anyway.

I was leaning on the counter in her tiny kitchen, watching her. She gathered her ingredients on the counter. "Okay, I think that's all I need."

"What are we having? I asked, broken out of my reverie.

"Have you ever had spaghetti squash?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, you'll love it. It's so easy to make. And it's so good for you! Look..." She opened the oven door and pulled out two browned domes of squash on a baking sheet. "I roasted it this morning so it would be ready. I'll show you what I do with it. But first, let's make the sauce."

She busied herself chopping onions. I watched her slice each onion in half, then peel the skins. Then she sliced each half finely, turned it the other way, and sliced again to produce tiny dice. She threw the onion into a pot of hot oil and reached for the garlic. I watched her crush each clove with the side of her knife so that the skins came away easily.

She caught my eye as she lined up the cloves and paused. "Do you like to cook?"

"No," I said, automatically.

She tilted her head, surprised. Her eyes are pools, I thought. I could drown in them.

"Really?"

"Nope."

"Huh..." She paused for another moment, one hand on the garlic, the other on her knife. "I'm surprised."

"Really?" I asked. I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to stay home and play wifey by the stove all day. I had bigger adventures planned. She knew that, didn't she?

"I don't know." she said lightly, beginning to chop again. "You just strike me as someone who would really enjoy cooking."

All of a sudden, I felt exposed, seen. I felt hot and embarrassed and I didn't know where to look. I tried to deflect her.

"I enjoy eating!" I said, smiling. "And if someone cooks for me, I always do the dishes afterwards. It's only fair."

"Oh, that is a sweet deal!" Rachel laughed. "I'll cook for you anytime if you do the dishes."

She worked quickly and efficiently, tossing celery and carrots in with the onions, then the peppers. The chopped garlic sat in a mound on the cutting board. The apartment started to fill with the savoury aroma of cooking vegetables, and we chatted as she stirred the mixture.

"If you ever do start cooking," she said sternly, "remember the cardinal rule: the garlic is the last vegetable to be added, then you add the spices. Some people cook the garlic for as long as the onion, but the garlic will always burn if you do that."

She gave the vegetable mixture a stir, looked at it appraisingly, then tipped some of the beer from her bottle into the mixture and stirred it again.

"That's better," she said. "It was a bit dry. Besides, the beer will leave a little depth of flavour in the mix." After a moment, she added the garlic.

"Remember," she said, "the garlic goes last, THEN the spices."

She began tossing spices into the pot, but I couldn't pay attention to what she was saying. The world had all of a sudden sharpened, become more vivid.

It was so intimate, the pouring of the beer she'd been drinking into our dinner. So casual, no apologies, no heightened sense of cooking etiquette or hygiene. It was as if we had already shared something intimate, so none of those concerns were necessary.

It was as if we had already kissed.

I blinked, trying to clear my head. But the colours around me grew more vibrant, my senses were on edge. I watched Rachel's hair divide over her shoulders, saw how her breasts swayed under her shirt as she moved around the kitchen.

I want her, I realised.

And my stomach dropped, because I had never wanted a woman in my life. I couldn't imagine anything below her clothes, I couldn't imagine how to make love to a woman's body, but I did want to kiss her.

I wanted to feel her mouth on mine and run my tongue along her pillowy lower lip.

But... what if she didn't want me?

And... even more terrifying... what if she did?

I felt frozen, terrified.

Rachel, completely unaware, was chopping tomatoes and adding them to the sauce.

"Rachel?" I said. My voice sounded artificially high. I lowered it. "Where's your washroom?"

"Just down the hall, there. Perfect timing: this just needs to cook for a few minutes anyway and we can have dinner. Wash up, there's fresh hand towels under the sink."

I locked the bathroom door and stared at myself in the mirror. What the hell, I asked myself, are you thinking, Amy? What's happening to you?

I pulled down my jeans and panties and sat to pee. It's the wine, I thought. You've never been much of a drinker, Amy.

But when I looked at the gusset of my dark blue panties, it was soaked, white cream frothing on top of the wet spot. I used tissue to soak up as much of my wetness as I could, then wiped myself.

I was soaked.

I cleaned up as best I could, and pulled up my jeanss, aware of the damp cloth against my skin. I washed my hands. Before I used the hand towel, I pressed my cool, wet fingers against my forehead. Finally, I opened the door and went back into the kitchen.

If Rachel had clocked the length of time I spent in the bathroom, she didn't let on.

"Just in time, watch this!"

She lifted the first half of the spaghetti squash off of the pan, and held it over a bowl. She gently pulled at the insides with the tines of a fork. The fruit came away in long thin strands, hot and steaming, into the bowl. She did the same with the other half.

"See?" she said. "I love this meal. It's so good for you - all vegetables! - and it's so cheap too. Perfect student eating."

She divided the squash into two bowls and then covered it in the tomato sauce, grating fresh parmesan to sprinkle the top of each dish.

"Voila! Grab your wine and my beer and let's take this to the table."

Over dinner, I managed to regain control of myself and our conversation flowed again. She was just cooking, I told myself. Honestly, you need to find a man soon. You are clearly horny, and also, Amy... you are straight.

Still, I couldn't help but notice how her features danced in the candlelight.

Finally, the food grew cold. I looked down. "It was delicious Rachel, I'm sorry I couldn't finish it all."

"Oh, it's fine," she smiled. "I always make too much. That's my curse."

"Well, it's not a curse to have leftovers." I grinned back.

She was looking at me intently again. "You'll be that kind of cook too, I bet. The kind who always makes too much."

I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, we'll see about that. I told you, I'm not really a cooking kind of girl."

"Okay," she said, but those brown eyes were warm, enveloping. My heart trembled and I felt hot and nervous. I stood up to break her gaze.

"Well," I said heartily, "into the living room with you, it's time for me to start washing dishes."

"No, no," she said. "I'll wash."

"Rachel!" I protested. "I said I would..."

"You can dry," she interrupted. "I hate drying. And you can help me put away all of the things that need to go into the high cupboards."

I sighed dramatically. "Always used for my height."

She laughed. "Oh, come on. I wish I was tall like you! I can never see anything at concerts!"

She washed, I dried, and laid the items carefully onto the table. When we were finished, I helped her put everything away.

"Oh," she said, "can you put the big pot on the top shelf? I never use it when I'm cooking just for me. I had to stand on a chair this afternoon to get it down, but you can probably reach it without even standing on your toes."

I put on an air of bravado. "Milady," I said, as I reached over her. I did have to stand on my toes, as it turned out, but still - no chair needed.

As I sank back onto my heels and brought my arms down, Rachel said suddenly, "Mmmm! Are you wearing perfume?"

I blushed. "Just White Musk from The Body Shop. Nothing special."

"Well, it smells amazing. Can I just..."

She took my hand, and lifted the inside of my wrist to her nose.

"Wow," she said. "I like that scent, and it smells fantastic on you. Is it on your neck, too?"

I nodded, swallowing hard.

And my arms were rising of their own accord, gathering my hair as if to make a high ponytail, then holding it on top of my head.

Rachel stood on her tiptoes to bury her nose to my neck.

I closed my eyes. Was that the brush of her nose? Could it be her lips? I couldn't see her, I couldn't tell.

I stood, trembling, afraid to move, afraid to stay still, not knowing what I wanted.

"Amy," Rachel whispered. "Open your eyes."

I did. Rachel was looking up at me intently.

"I'm here," she said, "And it's okay. If you want it to be."

She lifted her hand to my cheek, stroking it slowly, gently. With her other hand, she reached for my hand and took it.

Watching my face, she let her thumb glide over my lower lip. She squeezed my hand and looked at me, the question in her eyes.

I returned the pressure. She smiled.

She pulled me closer, stood on her toes, and lifted her mouth to mine.

She was so soft, so confident. A gentle exchange of breath, the parting and rejoining of lips, the tongues, tentative at first, then exploring, stroking.

She broke away. I kept my eyes closed at first, terrified of what this might mean, terrified that it might all be a trick, that she might laugh at me.

"Come to the couch," she said. "We don't have to do anything else, but if we keep doing this standing up I'm going to slip a disc in my neck."

I laughed in spite of myself, opening my eyes, and let myself be led to the living room. We sat on the sofa, but not together, not yet.

Rachel looked at me searchingly. "Are you okay? With.. this?"

"I..." I blushed. "It's just... Rachel, I'm... well, I've always been... straight, and... I don't really know..."

Rachel smiled. "It's okay. I understand. We just seem to have something special happening here."

"Has this..." I gestured vaguely, "ever happened to you before?"

She nodded. "Once or twice. I'm pretty exclusively into men, but... this does happen with women. Once in a while."

"So... what happens now?"

Rachel moved closer to me on the couch and stroked my hair.

"It's whatever you want. I'd like to kiss you some more, but we can just talk if you don't..."

I pulled her to me and brought her mouth to mine again. Our kiss was soft, yes, but there was an urgency that I couldn't push away. It was lips and sweet breath and little moans at the back of my throat and I wanted her.

I want her, I want her, I want her. Her breath was sweet and hot in my mouth, her hand was stroking my hair.

Finally, we parted, panting. I felt wild, untethered, like I was walking through a dream. I stood.

"Rachel, can we go to your bedroom?"

She stood too, searching my face. Before she could speak, I continued.

"I don't know what I want, but I want to lie down with you next to me. I don't want to fumble on a couch. I want to lie down with you." I didn't know why this was so important at that moment, but it was.

"All right," she said simply.

She led me into her bedroom, and sat me on the bed. "Can I take your top off? To feel you closer to me?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak. I rose my arms like a child and she pulled my shirt off over my head, folding it onto a chair next to the bed. Then she did the same with hers and stood in front of me in her bra. Her olive skin was so creamy and gorgeous, the soft curve of her belly, her rounded breasts in her lacy peach bra, so lovely. I could see the shadow of her aureola under the lace, her nipples hard against the fabric.

"That's enough for now" she said, and got into bed beside me. She kissed my forehead, stroked my hair away from my face.

Then she was kissing my mouth again, and oh God, oh help, such softness, such sweet joy. Kissing her was like kissing summertime, sunshine and freesias.

My arms were full of her, her soft curves, and oh, God, I couldn't stop my hips from moving, seeking pressure. Hers were moving too; I could feel her thrusting against my thigh.

"Rachel," I whispered, and her mouth left mine, kissing down my jaw, down the side of my neck, and she lifted a hand to stroke my breast through my bra. Her touch was so feather light and gentle, like a breeze. She caressed me with infinite patience until I was leaping under her hands, every nerve ending singing, until I closed my eyes and begged.

"Rachel, please."

I didn't know what I was asking for. Everything. Everything.

And finally, I felt her lift the fabric away from my breast and she lowered her lips to my nipple.

And oh, bliss, oh, fuck, it was so deep, that pleasure, I could feel it in my breast but also deep in my womb, she was calling forth some undiscovered knowledge of myself, and I arched my back, thrusting myself into her mouth until there was pain. I let out a strangled sob of joy.

"Amy, ssshhhhh, honey. Shhhhh. It's okay. We have time. Let me take care of you." And her lips closed around my nipple again while her other hand freed my other breast, pushing the bra cup beneath it.

Then she brought her thumb and forefinger to my mouth.

"Wet," she said, between licks, and I opened my mouth for her fingers, swirling my tongue around their pads. Then she brought them back to my other nipple and established a rhythm.

The pleasure was exquisite, a deep pulse that radiated from my nipples through my body and down to my clit. Her movements were slow, almost lazy, but they allowed me to feel every suckle, every pull of my nipple into her mouth and between her fingers.

I wanted to see.

I opened my eyes, and saw Rachel, her eyes closed as if she were lost in her own bliss. My breast was moving gently under her suckling mouth, and her fingers were pulling my dark nipple up, up, as it swelled and thickened.

The sight was so erotic that I exploded into a sudden, deep orgasm, my back arching towards her like a drawn bow.

I felt my cunt expel a great gush of juice into my jeans, and I was shaking, my deep come touching my whole body. I was gasping and crying out. Oh God, was that me, making those sounds? I kept my eyes closed, afraid to meet hers when I was so wild, so raw.

I could feel Rachel kissing my chest gently as my ragged breaths subsided. She had released my nipple and was putting firm pressure over my breast with her hand. I was grateful for this weight, this grounding force.

Then she was kissing me on the cheek, then my lips, then the tip of my nose. I finally summoned the courage to open my eyes, and she was gazing at me.

"Wow," she said. "I've never made someone come like that before. Just from breast play, I mean."

I had trouble focusing. "I," I swallowed, "I didn't know I could come that way. From my breasts only."

She kissed me again, on the mouth, more deeply. "God, Amy. It was really sexy."

"You," I whispered. "I want to give you pleasure. But I don't know how."

"Oh, I guarantee that you do. Can we take our clothes off together? You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."