Shrimp

Marc watched her nimble fingers at work: mincing garlic, chopping parsley and de-veining the shrimp. She possessed the quick and economical movements of a practiced chef. Aislyn place the fresh herbs into the melted but not boiling butter and olive oil mixture in the copper bottom skillet. Marc watched her hands as though she were a culinary magician poised to pull an herb roasted rabbit out of the seasoned air.

“How do you feel about Chardonnay?” Aislyn asked, holding up a bottle of deep green glass with a hand written label across its front.

“Nothing by Night Train in my house growing up.”

“You’ll love this,” she said adding a splash of the wine to the skillet.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Aislyn smiled at the amazement in his voice. “I slept with many, many wealthy men and acquired a taste for the finer things.”

“Seriously?”

“I dated a lot in college and most of them were from well-to-do families. The men that found me attractive usually had savior complexes and endless resources. At the time, the only way I thought I could pay them back was by blowing their mind or other things.” Aislyn added the peeled and de-veined shrimp into the bubbling oil and shrimp.

“You sure do seize the moment.”

“If you can’t be honest about the past, how can you be honest about your prospects for the future?”

Marc rubbed his eyes and peered into his soda, watching the carbonated bubbles float to the top and burst in celebration. He wanted to be that jubilant.

Marc couldn’t meet her eyes as she flipped the shrimp in the skillet, using her wrist to keep the oil, herbs, and crustaceans in constant movement.

“What about those who don’t want to be honest about the past?” he asked.