Tragic, almost, that the pasta was overcooked. Then again, it was the whole wheat kind (with the extra-chewy texture), so having it a bit more than al dente was fine with me - if this were regular semolina (which surely would have been of the extra-mushy texture by now), I’d have had to start over - but I happily proceeded onward with dinner. Chunky garden vegetable tomato sauce, a small salad of spinach greens and lettuce; a fine Italian-themed dinner for one; but there was certainly enough for unexpected company. Which is why the pasta was overcooked.

* * * * * *

Swiss Miss phoned me from just outside, voice tinny through the speakerphone.

“Let me in!” she mock-pleaded. “I want to see you.”

I left the door unlocked, barely ajar, and returned to the sauce, bubbling away, vegetables soaking in the rich, thick, tomato paste. Everything was on simmer, which was just fine for me - I was in no rush.

I hadn’t heard her enter, pushing the door open and slipping inside. I hadn’t heard the door shut, I had left the stereo playing. Her ballet flats (which she loved to wear) let her slip unnoticed on the hardwood floors, over the rug in the living room, and into the kitchen. She stood behind me for some period of time, unknown, as I watched the bubbling boiling water in the pasta pot, the bubbling simmering pasta sauce, and the bubbling thought bubbles in my mind.

“Oh this smells good,” her voice came from behind me, waking me from a sprawled mess of flowcharts and decision trees.

“You can always fix up store-bought sauce,” I said, stirring gently with a large wooden spoon, freshly chopped bits of mushrooms and peppers bobbing and bathed in the red briny sauce. She peered over my shoulder, surely on the tips of her toes, chin resting on me.

“Mmm,” she let loose, hands snaking around my torso. “I want a taste.”

I carefully lifted the wooden spoon out of the pot, bringing it to my lips to blow on it, cooling it as her head still rested on my shoulder. The steam still rose from the sauce on the spoon, but it was cool enough to taste. Carefully I shifted my arm, only viewing this complicated ballet of spoon to mouth from the corner of my eye. I caught a glimpse of her smirk, and maybe then, I wasn’t surprised to feel a dribble of warm sauce on my shoulder.

“Tsk tsk tsk!” she loudly exclaimed, pulling away from me, my head now able to turn, my neck able to twist, enough to see the twin blobs of sauce now sinking into my shirt.

I sighed, I think, as I really liked this shirt (cooking pasta and sauce in it, I should have expected some amount of mess - I do not wear an apron) and it pained me to have to 1) take it off, and 2) quickly pre-treat it.

Swiss Miss’ eyes were on me, large, lucid, cat-like, as I placed the spoon on the counter, picking up the towel, placing it under the faucet and dabbing at the stain. I adjusted the flames on the stove - barely a whisper of a flame left underneath both the sauce and the pasta. She followed me - eyes, footsteps - into the bedroom where I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt, carefully taking it off my shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed as I walked around it to the closet, bending forward to pick up the detergent next to the laundry basket.

“Mmmm,” she sounded, pointing at my undershirt. Yes, the sauce had stained through both shirts. “Take it off,” she said.

I placed the button down shirt, cognizant of the stain, on the edge of the bed. I reached around my body and pulled the white cotton undershirt off too, leaving me in just my pants.

Her eyes seemed to gloss over and shine at me in the bedroom, the light from the hallway and kitchen casting a fading ray into the room. Daylight was disappearing outside the window, and it grew into a cast of cold and bluish gray.

“Are you sure you didn’t get any on your pants?” she asked, her fingertip hanging off the side of her mouth, between her teeth. I looked down, but honestly, couldn’t see. I guessed not, but instead told her that I didn’t know. “Well you can’t be too sure - take them off,” she ordered.

Boxer shorts. That’s all that was left on me, as I pulled off my socks as I lifted my feet out of the legs of the pants.

She sat fully clothed on the far edge of the bed, one leg folded underneath her, the other hanging off the side, body turned to face me. Her chest stuck out as she kept her back rod-straight. Her eyes seemed never to blink. Not even as she stared me down, telling me plainly, “Take that off too, [six].”

My hands went to the waistband and pulled down, letting gravity bring the shorts down to my ankles. I felt cold, almost, swirling across my chest, and then again, below my thighs. She watched me, unblinking eyes making the tiniest movements up and down. I knew where she was looking, or at least I thought I did. I twitched under her stare.

With steps I don’t remember taking, my knees bumped the edge of the bed.  Breathing was steady, slow, and difficult.  I allowed my eyes to follow hers, finding myself hard and protruding below.  More gaps - more missing memories - as my hand was on me, stroking, moving up and down in slow motion jabs.

She had stopped making eye contact with me, instead fixed on my hand, my movements, my cock, my arousal, my acceleration.  Faster now, quick strokes from base to tip, curving arcs formed by the swing of my forearm from my elbow.  My cock bobbed in tiny circles, emerging from my grip, head swollen, large, pressing into nothingness.  Air.  Her thoughts (or did she say something).  Maybe.

Did I stop breathing?  Were my eyes closed?  Where was I - what was I thinking about - who was I with?  Rapid-fire questions rattling off as fast now as they did then, as I continued to jerk and pull and tug in front of her, sitting there motionless and eyes wide.

With a gasp, I let loose a shudder.  I think.  Was there something in between I forgot about?  Like blacked out words in a confidential document, the relevant parts are partial and patchy.  I stroked faster and faster, groaning.  I’m vocal, sometimes too much, maybe - loudly and suddenly feeling the almost invisible push from within, and then, I feel like a sound should have joined mine, as I twitched and spurted and cum erupted up and out from me, landing into - was I holding my shirt - in front of her.  Gaps.  No, lots of gaps.

And then there was breathing again, air suddenly found within my lungs, my hand stopped - not that I remembered stopping.

“I…” she began, before exhaling loudly, “really liked watching that.”

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked, thinking, then, that there would be enough pasta. Enough salad. I could find a bottle of wine somewhere, I think, maybe even dash across the street and down the block if I really had to - no, it is no trouble; stay.

“No,” she said, standing up, still facing me.  “I need to go meet someone now.”

Silent footsteps, out of the room, into the hallway, past the overcooked pasta, and out the door, and then, there was dinner for one.