My private dancer

The Beast and I have been working really well as a team lately. I  communicate to him things that he needs to pick up on his day off, or after work, and he gets them. He has also been suggesting more dinner ideas, which I especially love. So far this summer we’ve been subsisting quite nicely on fish/steak salads and  bruschetta parties (grilled bread served with sides of bruschetta-style tomatoes, avocado and maybe a nice cheese).

This has been especially helpful because on top of normal work stuff, there’s a new Terroni magazine in production, which doesn’t leave a lot time, or interest, in cooking or cleaning.

Tonight when I got home, the Beast had done two loads of laundry, cleaned the washroom and wiped down the kitchen counters. I  found him on the deck sunbathing in the twilight of the evening night.

Foodie: Why are you wearing a blazer?

Beast: Because I wanted to look awesome for you when you got home.

Foodie: That’s incredibly considerate. Will you make me a cocktail? I’ll take an Aperol spritz, please. I just have to proof some photos and then we can have dinner.

Beast: What does that mean?

Foodie: I don’t really know but I just have to do some work stuff and then we can eat and watch whatever you want, as long as it’s not something shitty.

Beast: Well, what do you want to watch?

Foodie: Well, should we look through my DVD collection?

Beast: Well, I guess so, because I didn’t rent anything.

Looking through my DVD collection

Beast: What about Amadeus?

Foodie: Is that a joke?

Beast: What do you mean?

Foodie: It feels like we watch Amadeus every three months. It’s the only movie you ever want to watch that I own.

Beast: What about Barry Lyndon?

Foodie: No way man. I just want to watch a normal movie. One word: Gladiator. Or Last of the Mohicans.

Beast: How about Shoah, or The Kid?

Foodie: Stop it! What about Spy Game?

Beast: Is that a fucking joke?

Foodie: Spy Game is a really good movie! I will list movies that I will watch right now and you pause me when I say one that you’ll watch. Jaws or Close Encounters of the Third Kind or Anything With Jason Bourne or Sense and Sensibility or Bridget Jones’s Diary or  E.T. or Breaking Away or On Golden Pond or Emma or Rushmore or Darjeeling Limited

Beast: Maybe.

Foodie: I don’t feel like watching that, actually. It feels like we watched it not too long ago. How about Sex in the City or a Jason Bourne Movie or Minority Report or Forrest Gump

Beast: I’ll watch Forrest Gump.

Foodie: You’ll watch Forrest Gump? Okay! Let’s watch it! You know, a lot of people I know make fun of Forrest Gump, but I don’t care. I like it.

Beast: A lot of people you know are probably too busy watching the Daily Show to appreciate Forrest Gump. (Pause) That’s all I’ve got to say about that.

The Beast prepared an a fagiolo salad–the bean and tuna salad that’s part of our regular rotation of five dinner meals–while I finished up some work. And then we got down to the business of eating.

Foodie: I can’t believe all the work you did today, plus you made dinner. You are just blowing my mind lately.

Beast: I can barely eat I’m so tired and exhausted.

Foodie: Can you open up this new jar of hot peppers? I don’t think I’m strong enough.

The Beast was strong enough. So strong, in fact, that as he ripped off the lid with his ferocious strength, olive oil and hot peppers went flying all over his shirt and shorts.

Foodie: Look at you! I’m so sorry! This is all my fault.

Beast: No, it’s my fault.

Foodie: Well, take off your clothes right now and I’ll go rinse them.

Beast: Right here?

Foodie: Come into the kitchen.

As I rinsed out the Beast’s oil-stained clothes, and he stood there in his underwear, he did what he always does when we’re in the kitchen–even if it’s for a minute–he turned on some music.

Foodie: You don’t need to turn on music right now. I’m almost done. What are you doing right now right there? Please stop.

Beast: Turn off the light. I want to show you a new dance I’m working on.

The Beast is probably the best dancer I know. So when he says he wants to dance, I fucking listen.  I turned off the lights and what happened next is hard to explain, but I’ll give it a shot. The Beast took a mini flashlight that his mother put in one of our Christmas stockings and began dancing suggestively with the flashlight positioned in the front part, to Count Basie.

Foodie: What do you think is wrong with you?

Beast: Everything.

Foodie: Can we go eat?

Beast: Shouldn’t I go put on clothes?

Foodie: No.

Beast: Okay.

It was a great meal. And Forrest Gump is easy to make fun of, but for some reason, I find it easier to succumb to the saccharine oddity of it all, and let it embrace me, like a warm blanket crocheted with clichés.

3 responses to “My private dancer

  1. Oh, so much to love. The Beast is looking damn fine these days! And that last line: perfection.

  2. Ah, an Aperol spritz. My favorite!

  3. Good work, Beast.

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