Ten minute prompt for today from Sarah Selecky: Write a scene that includes reheated lasagna.
I stumbled into the kitchen, swiping my hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. Opening the fridge door, I searched through the shelves full of green, red, and orange healthy things. I finally glimpsed what I wanted and reached past the lettuce and peppers to the Tupperware with the red lid in the back, the only thing not fresh.
Ah, lasagna. The perfect breakfast. Or lunch. Eh, it was 2:00. Linner?
I popped a corner of the lid off, then slid the lasagna into the microwave. Forty-five seconds would be perfect: just enough to heat the middle, but not too long to warp the cheese.
"Good morning, Margaret," a deep, male voice said behind me.
That voice didn't belong to anyone who lived in this house. I spun.
A very handsome man, dressed impeccably in jeans and a dress shirt, stood before me. His hair was short, brown, and his eyes a clear-as-a-crystal-lake blue. What on earth was this man doing in my parents' kitchen at 2:00 in the afternoon?
"Who are you?"
His gaze slid over my over-sized black hoodie and polka-dotted pajama pants. A curled strand escaped its prison and fell into my face. I forced it back behind my ear with a huff.
I fell back against the counter. How had I forgotten that my father had invited the son of a friend to stay with us for a few weeks? I knew my father and mother well. This wasn't just a friendly visit. They were hoping something romantic would happen between the two of us.
The microwave beeped and I yanked open the door. Grabbing the lasagna, I spun back around to get a fork. Greg stood in the way.
"Excuse me. You're in my way."
"Oh. Sorry." He shifted to the side and I yanked open the drawer. All the forks were the large size, and I only ate with a small fork. I rummaged until I found one that would fit in my mouth, then shut the drawer with my hip.
Greg watched me. I hated when people stood around and watched me. Didn't he have anything better to do?
"Buon Appetito," I muttered, plopping into the chair at the table.
"Altre Tanto," he replied.
I straightened up. "You speak Italian?"
"I studied it a little in school."
"Hm." I loved Italian. It was the language of music, of art, of--food. I cut into the lasagna and stuck a large bite into my mouth.
Greg sat down across from me.
I frowned. "Are you going to watch me eat?"
He shrugged. "I don't have much else to do."
"I prefer to eat without an audience."
"You want me to leave?"
"No. I just don't want you to watch me chew my food. Or listen to me. I hate when people make those little noises as they chew and I'm sure I make them, too."
"I can go." He started to get up.
"Yes, you probably should. Unless you want to sit with your eyes closed and tell me a loud, long, engrossing story. Those appear to be your two options."
He smiled. "Oh, so I do have options." I stopped chewing. His eyes had lit up in the most charming way. And a small dimple appeared next to his lip.
I dropped my gaze and shrugged, cutting another bite from the lasagna.
He sat back in his chair. I peeked up at him.
"Once upon a time, in a land far away--"
"You've got to be kidding me."
He shook his head and closed his eyes. "...there was a cow."