The Experiment Pt. 05

"He likes... a little of everything. Harissa, dolma... he makes a very good lamb kebab."

I nod along, feigning this unrelated food interest. "That sounds good."

"He also-" he pauses for dramatic effect again, staring at me out of the corner of his eye, "likes it a little sweet. Not too spicy or hot."

I dig deep into the Miss Siena that has gone toe-to-toe with Mr. Damian and remain unfazed by his suggestive tone. It also helps to know that his brother likes many things that Artem, hopefully, is completely unaware of.

"I'll try his kebab, then," I say without a blink as I hand back my menu.

The brother raises an eyebrow; surprised, amused, and further impressed by my lack of prudish giggling. "Of course," he blurts, and bows again while he takes my menu.

Finally left alone, I sigh deeply and take tepid sips of my coke. I've been trying to think of what to say when I see him, that is, if I even get to see him. Artem may go and blab everything and Damian could choose to avoid me completely. In which case, his brother will probably hit on me further and see if I'm open to giving second best in the family a try.

Thankfully, another pair of twenty-something girls are seated in the bar area and Artem is now giving them the same thorough performance. It's more entertaining to watch him with someone else as the target, free to analyze more of the similarities and differences to his sibling. The sibling who may or may not care to find out who is sampling his food.

My dinner arrives on a large oval plate, holding enough food for two people. Side dishes of rice and some kind of vegetable salad are piled high and garnished with sprigs of herbs. Two long skewers almost the length of my forearm are stacked with meat, with occasional wedges of eggplant, tomato, and onion. It is elegant and appetizing, unsurprisingly.

Before my appetite is lost to emotions, I dig into the rice and salad, both very flavorful and yet refreshing. I'm trying to take the meat off the skewer without making a mess, or stabbing myself, but it is so tender it falls off in chunks. Taking up a small piece onto my fork, I inhale its scent before taking a bite. It smells like everything that I think it should. Spices with hints of pepper, herbs I'm probably ignorant of but will appreciate their taste regardless. And I realize, it also smells a little bit, like him. That musky warm fragrance with something like cinnamon or anise in there. He smells like the food he cooks.

I close my lips around the hunk of meat, and begin to chew. I roll it around on my tongue and savor every bit of the meaty goodness. The seasoning is flavorful without being salty. It is tender and succulent to a point beyond delicious. To a point of perfection.

I am still chewing, lost in this reverie, trying to ride out my roller coaster of taste-bud induced emotions when Artem pops up again.

"How is everything tasting?" he asks with an eager smile.

"Good," I blurt after swallowing a mouthful, then after a cough to clear my throat, I elaborate. "It's really, really good."

His shit-eating grin goes from ear to ear. "I will give your compliments to the chef."

I open my mouth to say something, but he has dashed off and disappeared. He's probably given me only seconds to prepare myself and try to make good on my purpose of coming there.

A few minutes pass, and Artem is now bringing out the meals for the pair of women. He disappears again, and I begin to think that I've imagined all his hints and innuendos and I should probably just pay my bill and leave.

I wipe off my mouth and hands, then fold up my linen napkin and place it on the table. Thinking cash would be more convenient, I'm looking down at my purse and counting out my bills when I suddenly hear a voice behind me.

"This meal is on the house."

My head whips around; I have no idea how the hell he got behind me when the entrance to the kitchen appears to be in front of the bar area and off to the left.

Damian takes a step around my table and stands across from me, one hand in his pocket. He's wearing a white button-up tucked into black pants, looking every bit the professional with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, except his shirt is unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a white tank top that is clinging with just the right amount of sweat. His auburn hair is curling in places where the sweat has saturated it, a dewy glisten across his forehead.

I'm trying to speak over my choking emotions that are all but threatening to burst when they see his eyes looking at me with a mixture of affectionate sadness. His smile is there, but it is wary.

"How was it?" he asks with a nod towards my plate.

"The best meal I have ever eaten in my life."

I try to keep his gaze as I say this, and watch his eyes drift down towards the table. "They are all recipes from my mother and grandmother. With a few additions."

"They're clearly popular dishes. I wasn't sure there was an open table when I showed up," I say, with a gesture towards the front of the crowded restaurant.

"Oh, I am sure Artem would have found you a seat," he tosses out with a glance over his shoulder, spotting his eaves-dropping sibling.

I chuckle at this, and he smiles a little more, causing a painful ache in my chest. We are both silent until Artem takes a hint and slinks back to the kitchen. However, the two women are still dining behind us and I don't want to embarrass Damian. But I swallow hard, I take a deep breath, and open my mouth.

"I'm sorry. For the way I behaved last Friday, for what I did and said. There's no excuse for it, at all."

I give it a beat to see him staring at me intensely, take another breath and carry on.

"I came here because I needed to say that, and also because I should've come here when you first asked me to. But most of all, I wanted to say that I-"

My voice breaks as I struggle to get it out when a loud crash is heard in the kitchen. He huffs in frustration and holds his hand up.

"Please, excuse me," he says before rushing back into the kitchen. I hear him speaking lowly in Armenian, and the defensive tone of Artem arguing back. The two of them go back and forth in their language, garnering chuckles from me and the other two women. Artem admits defeat in some whiny phrase and I hear the sound of broken glass being swept up.

Damian comes back out, sweeping a hand through his hair with a deep exhale, and I chuckle. And secretly I'm grateful for the interruption.

"I must get back to work, but will you stay longer?"

I nod my head, feeling hopeful. "Yes."

"It will be for probably another hour," he adds warningly.

"Ok," I answer, "I don't have anywhere else to be."

He gives me a subtle smile, a smile that makes my heart ache.

When the sound of broken glass scraping across the floor stops, a sullen Artem emerges from the kitchen. He cheers up when the two girls sympathize with the accident, and one of them orders dessert after he suggestively jokes about it being a "taste you won't forget". He also checks on me, regaining a little bit of a grin when he asks if I "met the chef". I nod, and tell him I'm waiting for the chef to be done for the night.

The two women finish their dessert and coffee, and begin to chat with Artem. He tells them how he is also a DJ at some club, and tells them to come by and check it out. Another hilarious but effective performance when I hear the girls giggling and saying they will come by. I think one of them may have left her phone number when she paid their bill. The front of the restaurant is quieting down as more patrons leave, until there are only a few muted conversations that I can hear. In contrast, the back of the kitchen is filling up with the sounds of more people; the addition of children prattling and giggling with fatigued adults talking over them in a mixture of Armenian and English.

I'm sitting alone, listening to all this when a few kids come rushing through, and an older man comes waddling out of the kitchen after them, shushing them to keep quiet. He's tall but portly, bald with a ring of dark, curly hair; the oldest brother. After yelling at the kids, he turns to go back to the kitchen and is startled to see me sitting in the corner.

"Please, excuse us. My children, I try to teach manners but the meaning of quiet means nothing," he offers sarcastically.

"It's ok. They're having fun," I reply.

"Only because it is fun to make noise," he jokes with an exaggerated gesture of his hands, coming to the entrance of the kitchen. "May I get you anything?"

"No, I'm alright. I'm just waiting for Damian."

He stops in his tracks, looking surprised and confused.

"Damiano?" he clarifies with a thicker accent than his younger siblings.

I nod. "Yes, is it ok for me to wait here?"

"Of course," he says with a courteous nod, stepping away from the kitchen to get a better look at me. Not the leering appraisal like Artem gave me, but a fatherly look-see at the girl waiting for his baby brother. "My name is Davit. Damiano is my brother."

"I'm Siena."

"Very good to meet you, Siena," he replies with a little bow. "Did you get to eat while you were waiting?"

"Uh, yes. I had the kebabs."

"Ah, you tried Damiano's cooking," he smiles, resting a hand on his hip. "It is very good, no?"

"Yes, really good. It was amazing."

He chuckles. "You know, our mother taught us to cook, sons and daughters both. She said we would never go hungry if we could feed ourselves. Most of us can make a meal that fills your belly. Damiano, he makes meal that fills your soul."

I feel my throat tightening as he gives me a knowing smile, and I nod in agreement. "Yes, yes he does."

He gives me a fatherly nod, satisfied that I understand his statement. "It should not be too much longer. It is good to meet you, Siena."

I feel better after this, watching as the herd of children run through the bar area again. There is laughter and squealing from the kitchen, and I'm a mixture of sad envy. This is a family that does not need phone calls or distant emails to arrange a dinner with one another.

One of the other servers comes through with a tray and I ask her where the restroom is. When I return from the bathroom, Damian is sitting at my table, leaning over, resting his arms on his knees. He looks deep in thought, staring at nothing. I'm afraid to disturb him, but he hears my clicking heels as I get closer.

He looks up, I can see relief and hesitation. I come to a stop and keep my respectful distance from him, not wanting to assume. I try to smile, I try to show I'm not going to be petty if this is goodbye and a handshake. But I can already feel how much this will hurt when I leave, how much I'll wish for the ability to travel back in time to tell my experimenting self to trust him. To trust the result. To trust that even without all the logic I rely on so heavily, love is simply random. No method or rationale in its creation, no predicting of its outcome. When it occurs, you can only trust that it is real.

We are mutually gazing at each other, each of us keeping polite form in public company, but I recognize the layers beneath his calm expression. I need to say it, I know I do, and I take a deep breath, open my mouth, but suddenly he stands up.

He says nothing, but holds his hand out. For a heart-breaking second I think it's the goodbye handshake, until I see his secretive smile.

"There are some people I would like you to meet."

He's got his hand extended, waiting for me to take it. I place my hand into his palm, and follow him as he leads me into the kitchen.

As expected, the industrial kitchen is full of people. I see Davit trying to shepherd the young children into a space that appears to be a pantry, while Artem is navigating through the crowd with his hands loaded with dishes. A woman with dark blonde hair is trying to talk to him while she's being interrupted by a younger teen girl with flaming red hair who's arguing with her. There is an older man with a completely bald head standing by the massive industrial stove, ladling out some kind of soup or stew, and another heavyset woman who keeps handing off metal containers to fill, while also holding a baby.

Artem is the first one to see Damian entering the kitchen with me in tow, and gives a grin to his brother as he tries to get the attention of their clamoring family. It would be simpler to get everyone at once, but it just won't happen due to the noise. Instead, Damian takes me to each small grouping: the woman with dark blonde hair is his oldest sister, Maral, who looks me over and receives me with a cool smile, the redheaded teen is Anna, his youngest sister. Anna giggles and gives Damian a grin that she clearly knows who I am.

Next, he introduces me to Davit, who nods politely and then rattles off the names of his four small children. I'm just thinking of his poor wife when Davit introduces me to her: the heavyset woman who is holding a large catering tray in her non-baby hand but still manages to intercept one of her rambunctious sons just before he collides with her legs, and the bald man at the stove is Damian's uncle. They both smile at me pleasantly and greet me in English but quickly ask Damian a few questions in Armenian. He answers in English, yes he's leaving now, and yes he'll run by the store tomorrow before they open for dinner.

He edges away from the group at the stove and heads over towards a long table that faces the wall. A short woman with gray hair has her back to us as she works a large ball of dough, gently rolling it and then flipping it. Her gray hair is pulled up into a bun, but I can see the kinky waves that are similar to Damian's hair, and I realize who this woman is. I try to stand up straight, I roll my lips back and try to smile like I'm not scared shitless.

He gently taps her on the shoulder, saying her name softly.

"Mama-"

He repeats a quiet phrase in Armenian and she turns around with a start. Her eyes are bright and blue like her son's but with a smaller, inquisitive shape. Her face is shiny and pink from working in the warm kitchen, still wearing a neat flowered dress covered with a long apron. She smiles at me broadly, and I think genuinely, and wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron.

"Mama, this is Siena."

She says something in Armenian, a little grin as she gives him a look, then turns her eyes back to me.

"Siena, very good to meet you!"

She holds out her hands and clutches both of my hands in a firm, but friendly squeeze.

"It's nice to meet you too," I reply.

"You had dinner tonight?" she asks.

"Uh, yes, I did."

"Good, good. You will come back again?" she asks in a joking way that, similar to Damian's technique, is the half-serious, half-joke question.

"Oh, yes," I nod emphatically.

My response cracks her up and she laughs with a cackle, then pats the top of my hand. She says something with a low, motherly seriousness to Damian and he answers in Armenian, then quickly translates for me.

"Mama says to come back as often as you like the food, and even if you don't like it, she would rather you come anyway."

She nods at him and then at me to emphasize this motherly philosophy, and I chuckle along with Damian.

"I will come back," I reply, "I love the food here."

His mother nods again, turning back to her dough, but I manage to quickly glance at Damian. He's also trying to glance at me furtively, a little smile of relief.

Damian yells out to the crowd that he is leaving now, wishing them a goodnight in English and Armenian. He gets a quick hug from Anna and a few of Davit's children. The children giggle at me shyly and only wave goodbye to me when their mother prompts them in Armenian to do so. I'm still processing all this while Damian leads me out of the kitchen and towards a backdoor. He pauses to grab his jacket and helmet from a hook on the wall, and then holds the door open for me. I walk out into the cool night air, and finally we're alone.

He's putting on his jacket and zipping it up as he takes a step towards his motorcycle that is parked just outside the door. He's gearing up in this ordinary way as if this was how the night was planned from the get-go, while I stand there in my dress and high heels that will make riding his motorcycle a challenge, if he is even planning that. I can see the little hidden smile as he makes me wait while he's putting on his leather gloves, and only then does he seem to notice I'm still standing there.

"You did not bring your helmet," he states nonchalantly.

"I didn't know I'd be riding a motorcycle," I reply dryly.

"How did you intend to get home?" he asks.

I give him a pause, a moment for my punchline to land.

"I didn't."

His grin is ear to ear, with just a faint shimmer in his eyes. I'm biting my lip so I don't cry as he comes up to me and cups my cheek in his hand. He gives me a look that melts all my fears and doubts, that makes me believe how such love is possible, and finally, he kisses me.

The kiss ends with a gentle separation, but he keeps my face in his gloved hand. And finally, I blubber out what I've been trying to say all night.

"I love you."

His smile says it all, as he whispers into my lips that he knows. I can forgive his cockiness when he kisses me again, curling an arm around my waist, holding me in his arms.

We are just about lost in this moment, until a loud thud on the other side of the door reminds us that his family is still nearby.

I carefully climb on the back of his bike, tucking the long hem of my skirt up and over my thighs so it will not get caught on anything. I refused his helmet with the excuse that I'll get makeup smeared inside of it. He doesn't argue, just waiting with his head turned to the side as I scoot my legs in behind his, trying to lock my heels in place so they won't slip. I wrap my arms around his waist and give him a squeeze to say I'm ready, but he's looking down at my stocking covered leg. He lightly brushes his gloved fingers over my thigh, brushing along until he reaches my knee, an expression that I can't see with his visor pulled down.

We take off, he's driving a little slower than usual, being cautious with his skirt-wearing passenger. I assume he's going back to my place as we head north, but instead of getting on the highway to go my direction, he winds his way towards downtown. We're taking streets through the older part of the city, streets lined with enormous warehouses and heavy equipment parked by loading docks.

He keeps along a road that snakes its way beside the waterfront, until he ends up in front of a plain gray building about five stories tall. The motorcycle slows down to a stop when he gets to a tall metal garage door lodged in the corner of the industrial structure. He holds out a keycard in front of a sensor mounted just bedside the door; slowly the door rolls up into the ceiling with the steady ticking of a metal chain that reminds me of a drawbridge.

He drives into the large garage that holds only a few other cars staggered around the various concrete columns, pulling into a narrow space right beside the elevator. Getting off the bike proves trickier than getting on, and I'm forced to just hold my skirt up over my hips and hope no one else is watching, besides Damian. He's flicked his visor up to watch the process, trying to hold out an arm to help me, but he essentially can't get down before I do. He quietly witnesses my scandalous reveal of panties and thigh-highs, yanking his helmet off with a smirk.

Damian leads the way to the elevator, which to my dread is a large freight elevator with open sides that are only covered with metal grating. The door is the style where Damian must pull down a metal gate with a rope, and then a set of real outer doors close behind this. He sees my trepidation as I cling to the back wall, and realizes why we've never taken the elevator in my three-story building.