The Right Write Rite

Cooking.

Anything really.

That's what brings us together.

The silent being who has become a very close friend.

We stand in the kitchen on Saturday. Trying to decide what will be the dish for the day. Well hopefully.

I really am in the mood for soup, but he is dead set on desert. We pour over a couple of cookbooks that really need to be replaced. We have completed most of the recipes and are fighting for our favorites. Goulash. Chicken Soup. Pecan Pie. Double Chocolate Fudge Brownies.

"How about we just do one of each?"

I was tired of fighting with him. It all sounded so good and we had to start cooking soon. There was a nod of the crazy punk hair that sat on his head. I was told Arman used to be refined. Before his sister died of cancer and before his parents lost custody of him. His long black hair used to hang long, almost to his shoulders and that he did not dress as he now does, wrapped in black, his scarred knuckles hidden with faded leather gloves. I can't imagine differently.

"You are always one for compromise, huh Diana?"

I shrugged. He knew me too well. As he continued to flip through the pages. I had spotted something I wanted. My hand swatted his away, "I say we do this one."

Bending his head to look at the recipe, he snorted at me, "What happened to one of each?"

His sarcasm drove me nuts. I wanted that angel food cake. I wanted it bad and there was nothing he could do to change my mind, "We'll call this one a win for you Arman. So could you just make the damn cake? I promise I'll whip up some stellar blackberry topping."

Fingers drummed noisily on the counter as he considered my offer. He was just one of those guys that hated winning by default. It was like this with anything, but I always thought that it was funny when he did. The guys would do it all the time just to piss him off. Today was no different as he dragged the faded book over to his half of the table and began flipping through it. He took his time, knowing that I was always impatient to get things started, "Arman."

Pages continued to be turned as he refused to look at me. I was getting antsy so I lifted myself from the table and began to pull the ingredients out of the oversized stainless steel refrigerator. I had already made sure to leave us an entire shelf. The guys didn't know that I had to argue with Marta about it for three hours before she allowed me the fridge space. Now I was stuck with cooking duties during morning meals. I could take the sacrifice and hope the the guys never, ever, found about it. I looked over again at him as my green eyes met his brown. It was momentary, but enough amount of time had passed for Arman to actually roll his fucking eyes at me. Dick.

My hands were fidgeting. I was itching to get started. Pressure was never a good thing for me, "Come on. Come on. Hurry up. Stop being such an ass."

"Patience is a thing of virtue. Go get some."

I huffed at him once again as I waited for him to stand. He had already chosen, that much I could tell. The suspense was killing me as he began to move around the kitchen, picking things from the shelves of the pantry and from inside of the fridge. I fought the urge to follow, to look over his should and see what he had chosen, but I stood stock still. Waiting with my ingredients as he gathered his own. Arman could feel my stare, "Well don't gawk all day. Get started."

Glowering at him, I immediately began the process of making the cake and topping. Making sure to beat the eggs just right so they fluffed and gave the cake its heavenly flavor. My tendency to add more sugar than I should was always in play, but Arman was one step ahead of me. He had stopped frying large chunks of chicken just to snatch the measuring spoon from my hand and add what he believed was an appropriate amount for consumption, "Party pooper."

He pretended to not hear my comment as he went back to his sauteeing bird. I was still trying to guess what he was making as I moved onto the topping. He kept his back to me and I tried to move closer as I added some orange juice to the dark blackberries and caramelized sugar and began to stir lightly. The dark head swiveled around to look at me as he stopped what he was doing, "Unless you want to even catch a glimpse of what I'm making, you better back off and get your skinny little ass into gear with that cake."

Sighing in defeat I shuffled back over to the oven and pulled the cake out to allow it time to cool. The topping had already found a home lightly simmering on the stove as I heard the tell tale signs of the rest of the guys coming near. ,"What is it?"

"White chicken chili."