Times Like These

The mail had pilled up further than he'd ever seen it. To get through it all, he'd need a shovel and a flashlight. It was like Mount Everest, only not as cold. And by the time he got to the top, he wouldn't be frostbitten or near death. Actually, come to think of it, maybe he would be near death. It could take him the better part of fifty years to sift through it all.

And this was not fanmail. It was regular mail.

It was mostly bills, but there was the occasional letter from a friend back home or a credit card offering. A Wal-Mart flyer sat perched atop the tipping tower of starched white envelopes; he snatched it off and tossed it into the trash. It was most likely three weeks old, anyway.

It was times like these that he wished he had someone who would go through his mail and whittle it down to a select few. He needed a spam sifter, if there was such a thing. His cleaning lady told him time and again that she didn't go through mail, she only set it on the table; so he was without any sort of help in that department.

As he was sorting the mail into two piles (Junk and More Junk) the little tinkling of a phone rang inside his pocket. He reached for it quickly, knowing full well (thanks to the first few bars of �I Honestly Love You�) who was calling him.

�Helloooooooo,� he answered smoothly, sitting down at the table and swooping the letters out of his way.

�You sound chipper. It must be because of Olivia Newton-John.�

�Possibly. Or it might be because of another lovely lady.� He smiled brightly. �What are you up to?�

She groaned. �Don�t ask.�

�That bad, huh?�

�Worse, probably.�

�I�m sorry.� His smile faded, to be replaced by a light frown. He hated hearing her like this, even though it should be expected what with all the pressure currently leaning on her to finish up her degree and graduate. �Can I do anything?�

�Yes, you can distract me.�

�I�m good at that.�

�Oh, I know you are.� She laughed quietly. �What are you doing right now?�

�Sorting mail. I work at the post office now. Did you know?�

�No, I wasn�t aware of your career change.� She put on a false sigh. �Too bad, really, as you were so good at that other thing you did all the time.�

�What, the Pop Singer thing?�

�Yeah, that�s the one.� He waited, listening as papers were shifted on the other end, and large books were being closed with great gusto. �I�m breaking out of here.�

He stood up and went into the kitchen. �Good. Get on over here. I�ll make you fooooood.�

�Food only has two o�s, Aiken.�

�Not when I say it.� He rang a hand through his spiked redish brown hair as he searched the cupboards for his cookbooks. He was home about one week a month, and could never remember where he kept most things. There were too many other things taking up space in his brain; like schedules, and times for concerts and interviews and sound checks. There was no space for cookbooks.

�We could get some take-out, if you�ve lost your cooking books again.� She always seemed to know what he was doing, and what he was thinking. It surprised him each time, but left him with a warmth inside him that he�d never felt before. He�d heard stories as a kid of things like this; relationships like this. The unspoken bond over random little things. He remembered that people called this saga �The Story of the One� which is not about The Matrix, like you might think. It�s about soul mates, and he was immensely happy that he�d already found his after so little searching.

�I have lost them. You wouldn�t know where I keep them, would you?� He pushed aside seasonings galore, on a rabid search for The One Cookbook; even though it didn�t seem like an important thing, it was to him, because he hated feeling so lost in his own home.

�I wouldn�t, no. I�ve never seen one, to be honest.�

Clay chuckled into the phone as he crooked it between his shoulder and ear. �You�ve never seen a cookbook?�

�Well, maybe I�ve seen one or two in my day�but never one at your house. I was led to believe that you only cook grilled cheese.�

�Grilled cheese can be a delicacy.�

�Sure.�

His voice was full of humor when he responded, �Stop sassing me, and get over here, would you?� A salt shaker fell out of the cupboard and onto his head, but he didn�t really notice, even as salt sprinkled into his eyes.

�Yes, sir.� She laughed and hung up, setting books aside as she stood up to gather up her things. She hadn�t seen him in a week, and though that was a shorter period of time than she was used to, she still missed him like crazy.

*

�They might be hidden. Perhaps under the sink, like the cleaning solutions.� There was not a greeting exchanged, but this wasn�t unusual. Why waste time with a mere formality when you were so comfortable with someone that you wore your baggiest, ugliest pajama bottoms in front of them?

�Why would they be there?� He allowed her to step inside, and gently tugged off her coat as she passed him. �They should have their own little cupboard. A Cookbook Cupboard.�

�It amazes me how we can have a two hour conversation about, of all things, a cook book.� She laughed and leaned into him, as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

Clay let out a long sigh, feeling content all over from the mere touch. �Lord, I�ve missed you.�

He could feel her giggle against his chest. �I�ve missed you, too. And it�s only been a week.�

�A day is like torture.�

�A day?� She echoed, pulling away. �An hour, more like.�

He chuckled, planting a short kiss on her lips as he led her into the kitchen. �I have laid out some recipes for you to chose from. I am Chef Clayton, at your service.� He bowed as she jumped up onto a stool at the countertop, laughing.

�My, these recipes look very complicated.� She picked the first one up. �I didn�t realize restaurants put their recipes on their take-out menus.�

�I gave up. Take-out leaves us more time together, and less time fretting over a stove.�

�Good point.� She tapped her finger against one of the menus.

�I knew you�d want Chinese.�

She shrugged innocently. �I guess you know me too well.�

Clay stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and breathing her in. �I guess I do.�

Into his shoulder, she said, �Then you should know that �I Honestly Love You� is not the song I want you to know me by.�

He pulled away, looking at her curiously; humor was clearly written across her face. �I didn�t know you hated that song.�

�I don�t hate it, per se. It�s only the song that always ends couples in divorce.�

�I wish you wouldn�t watch The Wedding Planner so much.�

�I can�t help it. I�m a sappy romantic.� She paused, wrapping her arms around him and nestling against his chest. �And Matthew McConaughey is hot.�

�I�ll ignore that last statement, and just say this.� He kissed the top of her head, and then put his index finger beneath her chin, lifting it up so he could kiss her lips. He stepped back, smiling at her in that loving way he reserved only for her. �You make me a sappy romantic. And I�m not even annoyed at you for it.�

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