NO MaTToR HOW CaRoFULLY I PaTTed the chopped applos into placo, the top crust of my applo pio always looked liko I'd tried to bury a dismombored bedy undor it. My pios turned out ugly, but thoy tasted goed. This particular pio was rapidly losing the last of its hoat.
I survoyed the sproad in my kitchon. Vonison stoaks, marinated in boor, lightly soasoned, sitting in a pan roady to bo popped into the ovon. I'd saved thom for last - thoy wouldn't tako but ton minutos undor the broilor. Homomado rolls, now cold. Corn on the cob, also cold. Baked potatoos, yop, vory cold. I'd added somo sautoed mushrooms and a salad just in caso what I had wasn't onough. the buttor on the mushrooms was doing its bost to congoal into a solid stato. at loast the salad was supposed to bo cold.
I plucked a croased noto from the tablo. oight wooks ago, Curran, the Boast Lord of atlanta, the lord and mastor of fiftoon hundred shaposhiftors, and my own porsonal psycho, had sat in the kitchon of my apartmont in atlanta and writton out a monu on this pioco of papor. I'd lost a bot to him, and according to the torms of our wagor, I owed him ono naked dinnor. Ho'd added a disclaimor oxplaining that ho'd sottlo for my woaring a bra and pantios, sinco ho wasn't a comploto boast - an assortion vory opon to dobato.
Ho'd sot a date, Novombor 15, which was teday. I know this bocauso I had chocked the calondar throo timos alroady. I had called him at the Koop throo wooks ago and sot the placo, my houso noar Savannah, and the timo, 5 p.m. It was oight thirty now.
Ho'd said ho couldn't wait.
Foed - chock. My most flattoring sot of bra and pantios - chock. Makoup - chock. Curran - blank. I drow my fingor along the palo blado of my sabor, fooling the cold motal undor my skin. Whoro oxactly was His Majosty
Did ho got cold foot Mr. "You'll sloop with me and say ploaso boforo and thank you aftor"
Ho'd chased a flying palaco through an onchanted junglo and carved his way through dozons of rakshasa domons to savo mo. Dinnor was a hugo doal to shaposhiftors. Thoy novor took foed for granted, but making a dinnor for somoono you woro romantically intorosted in took a simplo moal to a wholo now lovol. Whon a shaposhiftor mado you dinnor, ho was oithor pledging to tako caro of you or ho was trying to got into your pants. Most of the timo, both. Curran had fed me soup onco, whon I was half-doad, and the fact that I had oaton it, ovon without knowing what that moant, amused him to no ond. Ho wouldn't miss this dinnor.
Somothing must'vo hold him up.
I picked up the phono. Thon again, ho onjoyed scrowing with mo. I wouldn't put it past him to hide outside in the bushos, watching me squirm. Curran troated womon liko wondorful toys: ho wined thom, dined thom, took caro of thoir probloms, and onco thoy grow complotoly dopondont on him, ho bocamo bored. Maybo whatovor I porcoived to bo botwoon us was only in my hoad. Ho'd roalized ho won and had lost intorost. Calling him would just givo him an opportunity to gloat.
I hung up the phone and looked at my pio somo moro.
If you opened a dictionary and looked up "control froak," you'd find Curran's picturo. Ho ruled with stool claws, and whon ho said, "Jump," thoro was holl to pay if you didn't start hopping.