Grill Master

"No cheese. Right, Carol?" Ivan calls into the yard. The thin, fragrant smoke from the grill before him caresses his face on its way up and beyond.

"That's right! You remembered," Carol replies with a thoughtful smile before turning back to her group conversation.

"Of course, kiddo. I gotchu."

With care, Ivan places a homemade beef patty onto the hot grill. It's buoyant, bouncy; he ground the chuck himself. The meat sizzles excitedly as it makes contact with the hot steel. And as the fat begins to render and drip onto the coals, the flames flicker and lengthen, reaching up to lick at the edges of the fresh meat, desperate for a taste.

He sprinkles the burger with salt, then redirects his attention.

"Rick!" Ivan calls out. "You're up, bud."

Rick saunters over to the barbecue from the edge of the backyard, passing me on his way, his Ray-Ban's hiding his admittedly stunning green eyes. Ivan points to the stack of rainbow coloured paper plates on a nearby picnic table. Rick grabs a purple one and approaches Ivan.

"Matches my shirt," he says, holding out his plate. His slim-cut lilac button-up is left decidedly unbuttoned at the top.

"Such a fashion icon, you are," Ivan replies with a slight smile. His red and white patterned casual shirt is effortless and unfussy. It fits loosely, except around his broad shoulders--too much real-estate to cover.

Ivan takes the two halves of a toasted sesame bun from the grill and places them on Rick's plate. The buns are soft, plump, warmed-through, and just starting to brown on the insides. Despite the strength of Ivan's large hands, the buns are gently handled, coming to rest without fear of being squashed or abused. The delightful scent of warm bread wafts from them like a languorous sigh.

I feel warm.

"How goes the job today?" asks Rick, eyeing the chrome barbecue.

"So good, bud," he replies calmly, genuinely. "Always a pleasure."

With his spatula, Ivan scoops up a burger patty and lays it carefully onto Rick's bottom bun. It glistens brightly in the afternoon sun, cooked to, undoubtedly, a perfect medium.

"She's a beauty, Ivan."

"Condiments are over there," he replies with his characteristic subtle smile, pointing again at the picnic table.

"Tell me you have corn relish. You gotta have corn relish," Rick says, stepping over and dressing his burger.

Ivan smirks as he drapes a wide square of cheddar cheese onto another patty like he's tucking it in for the night.

"We'll talk later about that portfolio," Rick calls back before he re-engages the crowd.

Stroking his trim, greying beard, Ivan nods, admiring the way the corners of the cheese fold down over the edge of the meat in a luscious, tender hug.

Sitting in my Adirondak chair under the partial shade of a maple tree, the cool grass tickles my bare feet as I comb my toes through it. The small sensations build like static electricity until finally, to release the sensory tension, I rub my arches together.

"Sarah, babe, are you enjoying the sun? What are you doing here just smiling to yourself? You look great, by the way," a woman says as she takes a seat next to me.

It's Rashida. We work together at the salon. She likes to comment on all my ensembles--today's includes a bright blue and yellow diamond-patterned dress, large black sunglasses, and a floppy straw sun hat over my blonde ponytail. She's also good at finding out which of her clients aren't quite straight and loves to invent stories about them. Occasionally, they fuck.

"Well, anyway, I'll be over with the gals whenever you're done lounging here. Oh, and Carol is lovely by the way. It's so interesting to finally meet some of your family."

Rashida takes a sip of her seltzer through a straw.

"Such a delight!" she concludes with a wink and bounces back to the girls further into the yard.

Ivan is now standing at the picnic table near the grill, neatly rearranging small dishes of fresh toppings and condiments. As he completes his meticulous work, his rolled sleeves reveal the long muscles in his forearms that dance underneath his dark body hair. He wipes the top of a ketchup bottle, returns the serving forks for pickles and tomatoes to their appropriate place, and sets upright a toppled saltshaker. With a thick cloth, he wipes away any debris from the tablecloth in long, smooth strokes, then finally straightens a stack of napkins. Satisfied, he folds his cloth, brushes his hands on his classic red apron, and returns to his post.

A gentle dew has gathered on my forehead despite the shade of the tree. I pick up a nearby magazine to fan myself and breathe out deeply through gently pursed lips.

Now a small group stands by the grill, and Ivan manages the situation. A keen young woman stands nearest.

"Yours will be ready in just a minute, Erica."

She looks back at him hungrily but accepts, taking a step back.

"In the meantime, let's take care of the rest of you," Ivan says with warm authority.

On each of the three coloured plates brought forth he places a long sideloading sausage bun; they're coated with a sprinkling of cornmeal and dusted with flour. With long, silver tongs, Ivan picks up each beautifully browned Italian sausage and wedges them lovingly, one after the other, into the welcoming slits. The plump sausages sit curving upward, almost standing at attention, patiently awaiting their decadent dressings.

I curl my hair around my fingers.

"I like mine with relish," Ivan suggests.

After thanking him, the lucky recipients take their plates to the picnic table and begin their gastronomic arts and crafts project. I try to remain calm as they paint chaos onto what was so recently made into an organized and serene display of carefully curated condiments.

"Alright, here we go, Erica."

She steps forward with enthusiasm and holds her plate at nearly eye-level as Ivan places an untoasted bun onto it. She watches him intently. Just like earlier, he slides the meat onto Erica's eager bottom bun, but this patty is less pliable than the last. Her eyes widen, her lips part.

"There. Well done," Ivan, declares. "Ketchup's on the table."

She flashes him a big smile.

Erica works in Ivan's office. She looks up to him, literally and figuratively, and knows exactly how he takes his coffee.

There's a silence as she lingers.

"Could you do me a favour?" Ivan asks.

"Yes, of course!" Erica blurts out.

"Could you grab me a beer?"

"Yeah, I'll be right back," she says, already striding away. The ketchup can wait.

Ivan doesn't look at me. He still hasn't looked at me all afternoon. He's focused, engaged. And he knows I can handle myself while he works. He also knows that even if I'm watching this whole high school routine, there isn't a doubt in my mind.

"I didn't know which one you wanted so I brought a few options," Erica says, awkwardly holding three different beers in her small, brown hands. The cans are already slick with condensation. The hurry leaves her a bit short of breath.

"I'll take the lager," he says, reaching for it. "Thanks."

As he takes it, Erica fumbles the pilsner, and it falls to the grass with a soft thud.

"Oops!" she exclaims, her face reddening.

"That's okay. You can put it back in the cooler. The pilsners are just for Rick," Ivan jokes with a mischievous little smile.

"Okay, Ivan," she says, crouching to pick up the can.

Erica then retreats to the condiments table where she left her plate and squirts out an indulgent stream of red ketchup onto her stiff burger. She stares at it for an unusual length of time, caught in a reverie. Using the top bun, she smears the ketchup around, massaging it into the meat with slow, circular motions. When she finally snaps out of her daydream, Erica returns to the cooler before meandering back into the party.

For the first time since the guests began to arrive, Ivan turns his head and looks directly at me. Except for his raised, expectant eyebrows, he makes no expression.

I cross my legs and adjust the hemline of my knee length dress. My thighs press into each other reluctantly, mutually displeased by each other's heat, but I feel a need for privacy and force the soft collision. They quickly become moist in protest. I take a sip of my cool rosé.

My head tilts down briefly in the slightest nod, accentuated by the motion of my wide-brimmed hat.

He smiles and gets to work.

Ivan scans his luxurious stock of beer-poached sausages. Finding the most suitable specimen, he uses his tongs to lift it gingerly from the rest of its envious peers and lays it across the steel grill. It pops and snaps for a moment, then eases into a comfortable sizzle.

Beer in his left hand, he takes a sip. With the can tilted, a few drops of water fall from its shining bottom edge and evaporate against the coals in an instant. The steam filters up through Ivan's beard and adds to the semi-gloss of his warm, tan skin. A moment later, he turns over the sausage, revealing the stark contrast of the grill marks.

Licking my lips, I taste salt; the heat is getting to me. My thighs glide against each other as I re-cross my legs. I gulp down more rosé.

Craving relief, I plunge my hand into a small cooler stationed next to me. It holds the wine bottle I've been drawing from, and a few small cans. At this point, most of the ice has melted, but the water is still cold. I hold my hand in it as long as I can, willing the frigid temperature to rise up through my arm and spread across my body.

When my hand gets too cold to bear, I pull it from the cooler and hold it up to dangle my wet fingers over my chest, above the low neckline of my dress. I lean my head back. Ice cold droplets sprinkle my hot skin--I'm convinced they almost turn to steam--and as they streak down into the bodice of my dress like a cool stream between the sunny banks of my breasts, I shiver.

With my meal cooking over indirect heat, Ivan steps away to mingle. In this moment, Erica approaches me with Rashida at her heels. Rashida admires Erica's short, smooth legs as the latter stands awkwardly by my chair and begins to speak.

"Hi, Sarah" she says, timidly, before taking a long sip of beer. I estimate it's her second can since her little incident with Ivan. She wipes her hand on the scant denim of her Daisy Dukes.

"Thank you so much for having me." She stifles a hiccup. "You have such a beautiful home and yard. Ivan is so good at cooking!"

"Oh, honey! That's so nice," Rashida says from over her shoulder, squeezing her arm. "Isn't she sweet?" She shoots me a look.

"And um..." Erica looks at the grass, hoping to find the next sentence. "Well, I've gotta get going. But Rashida was kind enough to offer me a ride home."

"Oh, it's nothing--you're so close. Besides, I need to slip out to get a bit more wine and snacks for the party."

Rashida giggles with an impish look in her eyes.

"Anyway, thanks again, Sarah. It was lovely meeting you."

"Come on, honey. Let's get you home" Rashida says to Erica, taking her hand as they walk away.

Their departure is well timed. With clear intention, Ivan disengages the crowd and steps over to the picnic table where he searches through the stack of paper plates to find a yellow one. He removes a fresh sausage bun from a newly opened bag and holds it in the palm of his hand. As he slowly runs the side of his thumb along the bun's opening, its halves spread willingly under the gentle pressure, ready to receive.

Back at the barbecue with tongs in hand, Ivan lifts with one smooth motion the sausage from the sizzling grill and nestles its gentle curve into the happily parted bun. Then, he dresses it artfully with a slithering line of yellow mustard, spoonfuls of sweet green relish, and a sprinkling of chopped white onion. The moment he lays his work carefully onto the plate, he locks eyes with me and makes his approach.

My heart begins to pound.

I uncross my legs, sit forward in my seat with knees together, and straighten up. With cool composure, I remove my large black sunglasses and smooth back a few stray hairs around my forehead. Finally, I adjust my hat. All the while I hold his gaze.

When he stands before me, I tilt my head back to look up at him. With my newly bared eyes, I'm blinded by the sunlight that shines from behind his large black silhouette. His features are obscured, his expression hidden, but I can feel his wide brown eyes, his fiendish little smirk. And I know what he wants from me.

I take the plate that he holds between us, offering a subtle smile as thank you. Lifting the bun with a careful grasp, I pause to take in its savoury aromas. The hot, fragrant steam is both tantalizing and excruciating; it arouses a deep, instinctual appetite and sets my skin ablaze. Tiny beads of sweat materialize on my forehead and on either side of my nose.

He towers over me, perfectly still as he waits.

The anticipation is more than I can take, but it's finally time. As the hot, seasoned meat breaches my lips, my tongue rises underneath to guide it in further. This flash of favour is only the beginning, but I grin nonetheless, baring my teeth. When they come down for a bite, my incisors first squeeze, then snap the casing, releasing an unexpected pressure. Luscious, hot juice paints my cheek and dribbles down over my lower lip. I twitch with surprise, then my body loosens with deep satisfaction. I tear a full, unctuous bite from the edible bundle, and chew with smiling eyes as I look back up to him under the brim of my wide, straw hat.

"Mm," Ivan groans, gazing down at my warm, messy face. "That's a good girl."