The Sweetest Things

Do you want to know what I like?

Sweet things.

Like mixing a spoonful of hot chocolate mix into my coffee.

And sometimes I like to put a spoonful of whipped cream on top.

Not the kind from the can with the nozzle.

It’s too oily.

Filmy tasting.

I mean the kind I whip up myself in a silver bowl.

Just some heavy whipping cream and a little spoonful of powered sugar.

Sometimes I like to add the insides of a vanilla bean.

WHIP,

WHIPPED.

Cream.

Doesn’t that sound sweet?

But sometimes I like my coffee just black.

Like when I spend the night at Tim’s house and when we wake up and he says, “Do you want me to make coffee?”

He brews it in a French press and then we drink it black.

Tim is my soul mate.

He has a picture of us at the beach in Forks thumbtacked to the wall next to his bed.

I like it because I have a picture of us at the beach in Forks thumbtacked to the wall next to my bed, too.

I like Tim’s house. It’s got a fireplace and he has four potted cactus plants in his window.

I helped him pick out a shelf for his records at Ikea. And then I helped him build the shelf.

Then I bought a toothbrush and some mascara and a box of tampons and I put them in his bathroom. I left a hairbrush at his house, too.

Tim’s house is in Seattle.

So is my house.

I like Seattle because I like the Space Needle and salmon filets and plaid flannel button-ups.

When Tim and I grow up we’re going to live in the same house.

Maybe it won’t be in Seattle but maybe it will.

Wherever it is, it’s going to have a hot tub and a VHS player and an electric mixer to make whipped cream. And my cat Lars is going to live there with us, too.

On the weekends we’ll sleep in late and when we wake up Tim will brush my hair with the hairbrush from the bathroom.

I like it when Tim brushes my hair because I like the careful attention he pays to my stringy strands.

It’s a sweet thing.

“Will you brush my hair?” I’ll ask when we wake up.

Affectionately, he’ll start at the ends. He’ll gently pull at my tangles until he can brush straight through from the roots.

BRUSH.

BRUSHED.

“K. I’m done,” he’ll say.

“K,” I’ll say. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he’ll answer. “Do you want me to make coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He’ll brew it in a French press and then we’ll drink it black.

Doesn’t that sound like dreamy days?

I like to day dream about dreamy days.

Like the dreamy days I spent in Paris when I was 21.

I like Paris because I like the way it tastes like creamy, unsalted butter and how its narrow streets smell like rolling tobacco and hot steamed milk. I like the way my tongue feels when I speak French. It twists in foreign loops and drums on the roof of my mouth when I roll my r’s.

Bonjour.

Ça va?

Donnez-moi un café, s’il vous plaît.

Uh, je pense que je voudrais un crêpe avec jambon et fromage. Et tu?

Ça fait combien?

One time I’ll take Tim to Paris.

I’ll wear chic nude flats with pointed toes and red lipstick and I’ll wear my hair in a loose braid.

On a lazy Wednesday afternoon, we’ll criss-cross aimlessly over the Seine and drink bubbly beer in the Jardin du Luxembourg with demi-baguettes and camembert and strawberries.

In my ear he’ll whisper sweetly, “Olive juice, baby.”

Maybe I’ll take him to the Louvre where we’ll hurry past the Mona Lisa crowds to the quiet, long hall where theArcimboldo’s hang. When Tim isn’t looking, I’ll take pictures of him admiring Ingre’s Great Odalisque and Gericault’s Raft of the Medusa.

We won’t climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but at night we’ll watch it sparkle distantly from the balcony of our hotel room. I’ll insist that we listen to Sidney Bechet and Tim will kiss my forehead 10 times in a row.

SMOOCH.

SMOOOOOOCH.

We might never leave.

But then I’ll remember that there are so many places to be in love with Tim.

In Port Townsend and Forks.

In Vashon.

In Bend.

In Skagit Valley.

On Whidbey Island.

One time I loved Tim when we went to California and I rented a fast, red car in Los Angeles and we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Barbara.

When we got there we ate sweet crab and drank beer.

I like crab.

With butter. And lemon. And salt.

On our second day in California, I drove Tim up the twisty 154 highway that winds through the dusty foothills of Santa Barbara. We rolled down the windows and let the hot, mountain air blow through our fast, red car.

Wound left.

Veered right.

I drove

UP,

UP.

To the top.

When we parked the sun was hazy warm and the mountain flowers were purple. And orange.

The air sounded in an algebra of whipping wind and insect chirps and vibrations from gun shots from the shooting range that’s hidden in the folds of the hills.

There were blue bellied lizards and spiky grey cactus plants and sand colored boulders.

We climbed over the giant rocks.

Through them.

Squeezed underneath them.

Does this spot have a better view?

Or how about that one?

This way, Tim.

But how do we get up to the top of that rock, Tim?

On the top of a flat boulder that was shaped like a tortilla chip we sat next to a fat, black beetle.

I wore shorts and Tim rolled up the ankles of his jeans.

I like wearing shorts.

My shins browned in the 2:30 p.m. sunshine and Tim’s neck sizzled even though he put on sunscreen. SPF 30.