"Sorry about the mess." I felt I had to apologize. It was what most people said when their company caught them at bad housekeeping.
He didn't respond nor did he seem to take much notice of the disaster that was my kitchen, a microcosm of my entire lonely and single life, now exposed to his scrutiny.

There was a sink full of two days‑‑no, more like three‑‑of unwashed dishes. Counters cluttered with excess: half‑drunk cups of cold coffee, dead flowers still sitting in murky green water. Spills. My attempts at interior decorating. I had no time to clean up after myself, nor the inclination. Besides, I was the only person in and out of my kitchen. No one, not even neighbors, came to visit me. Mom and Dad were half a continent away, and all my friends were telephone‑pals or movie‑companions. Dating, I'd thought, was a thing of the past. Until Grayson stepped into my life.

Grayson Parrish was thirty‑eight; at the right spot where men seem to grow into maturity like a great wine, where just the right amount of lines creased his forehead and scored his dark eyes. He had a scar on his chin, prompting me to make comparisons with Harrison Ford's. He'd laughed then, and told me he'd been skateboarding as a teenager and smacked his face against the concrete. Nothing glamorous, he had insisted, just kid stuff. Still, the lines on his face gave him definition and broadened when he smiled.

Yes, I'd call him handsome, definitely attractive. It didn't matter to me that he was divorced and had a ten‑year‑old daughter. I knew what it was like to have failed relationships, having been a resent dumpee myself. So we'd been hesitant, approaching each new milestone in our relationship carefully. Still, my heart warmed when he'd declared to me last week, "You're the first girlfriend I've had in years, Sarah." It had been too long since I'd been anyone's "girlfriend."

I opened my kitchen cupboards. Like Old Mother Hubbard's, they were quite bare.

"I'm afraid I haven't gone shopping in awhile," I confessed with a light laugh, hoping to excuse myself in some way. Shopping was depressing, and I hated to cook. Usually I grabbed a bite to eat at the deli or McDonald's. I was beginning to wish we had just gone to either one of those places. Here he could see all my blemishes, the way I really lived. Would he still want me, knowing what kind of housekeeper I was, what kind of cook?

"That's okay," he replied, and I had the feeling it really was okay with him. "Anything will be fine."

He was so tall the door behind him barely crested his dark hair. The way he looked at me, his eyes glittering even in the fluorescent lighting, unsettled me suddenly. Was I falling in love with this man? I could feel the tension between us, heavy in the air like cologne. We'd had several dates, and this was our first in either one of our places. It was obvious what was coming next in our relationship, though neither of us had discussed it; rather we'd discussed around it. I think we were both a little nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. Really nervous. I tapped my fingernails against the grain of the cupboard, wishing I knew the right thing to do or say. And the strange thing was I'd never been like this with Grayson. Always I'd felt comfortable, totally myself. "Uh, I'll be back," Grayson announced. There was a hint of uneasiness in his usual mellow voice. Deep and warm like mulled wine, it dipped to a lower register. "Sure. Make yourself at home."

I watched him saunter off into the living room, listening to the swish of his Levi's and the slap of his loafers against the hard wood floor.
A further inspection of my shelves produced a half‑consumed jar of Skippy Peanut Butter, a few slices of seven‑grain bread, and the fridge yielded some strawberry jam‑‑Smucker's.

"How about a sandwich?" I called to him as I heard him fool with the dial of my stereo. "I can make a killer peanut butter and jam sandwich." I detected the distinctive sexy jazz of Sade waft into the kitchen. Grayson was grinning when he moved back into the kitchen, his seductive Harrison‑Ford‑scar shiny in the light. "A killer peanut butter sandwich? That I have to see."

It was what I needed: the mundane to take my mind off my nervousness.

I pulled the jar of Skippy to me, unscrewing the lid. The strong aroma of peanuts perfumed the air. While I laid four slices of the brown bread on the counter top, Sade's sultry tones played on, and I felt myself caught up within the summer feel of it; hot and oh, so erotic. My fingers grasped the knife, while my tongue played at my upper lip. It was a gesture I performed when I was concentrating, but the feel of my own moisture on my lip suddenly made me feel dizzy. Nevertheless, I towed the knife along the insides of the plastic jar, and a mass of the brown goo caked the silver.

Grayson was behind me, his hands gliding along the curves of my waist. "I'm starving." His breath was a hot whispered breeze against my ear, my neck. "Murder me with this sandwich, Sarah."

Instinctively, I found my hips moving in rhythm to the beat as Sade sang on. I slid the knife languidly across a piece of bread, slathering the goo along the lumpy slice, spreading it into all corners. I repeated the process, splaying the buttery mass along the other slice.

Oh, I was drunk with the scent of the peanuts, drunk with the jazz, drunk with Grayson, now moving, dancing along with me as I slowly slew these peanut butter sandwiches.

The jam came next. The jar lid was a bit sticky as I unsealed it. Automatically, I found myself raising my fingertips to my lips to lick them clean, when Grayson intercepted them. His wet mustached lips caught my forefinger, and his tongue swept across the digit.

Slowly, he withdrew his mouth. "Mmm . . . strawberries."

He placed his hands on my waist again, and through the light cotton dress I felt the heat of them, of the music, of the intoxicating smell of the jam, of the peanut butter, even the bread. It was hard to take the knife in hand again, but I did, although I could feel myself tremble, could feel my pulse racing, could feel the acceleration of my breath as my breast lifted.

Thick, clotted red jam coated the blade, and when combined with the brown peanut butter, I was struck with the completeness of it all. It only required lifting the plain piece of bread atop all of it. And there they were. Plain and coated, waiting, waiting, waiting in wild anticipation for the ultimate consummation, for completion.

I felt the soft bristle of Grayson's mustache as it grazed against the nape of my neck. "Shall we eat them now? Or later?"

I placed the plain slices on top of the gooey ones. Now they were complete.

Turning around, I kissed Grayson. "Later."