What Are We?

                                    

                                          
Allan

                          
Jasmine has a startled smile on her face when I dismount my motorcycle in front of the gate.
                          
"Isn't it too early for your visit?" she asks, then adds teasingly, "Let me guess. You were too lazy to cook lunch?" I expected her to have a sweater on, but today she's wearing a pink cardigan over a brown shirt, black leggings, and matching black slippers.
                          
"For your information," I say, mock-affronted, as I remove my helmet, "I have a perfectly good stock of frozen pizzas in my fridge."
                          
Jasmine puts the back of her right hand against her forehead, looking dramatic. "God, forgive me for offending him."
                          
I join her laughter as I parkour over the gate. I glance up in time to see her roll her violet eyes while muttering, "Show-off." Once I'm close enough, she fingers the short sleeve of my pale blue shirt. "I love this fabric," she comments. "Is it Gucci?"
                          
"Yes.." I wrap my fingers around her wrist, and she looks up in alarm, pulling her hand away, before murmuring, "Sorry." A pause. "I thought you preferred Tribal?"
                          
"Yeah, I still do," I answer, following her to the spacious kitchen. "My sister gave this to me on my birthday last year."
                          
"Roxanne?" she guesses.
                          
"Bella," I correct, leaning my arms on the fridge door while she holds it open. 

                          
Jasmine looks up and smiles. "I'm glad. Honestly, I thought she'd hate you forever."
                          
"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," I say sarcastically as she pulls out a pitcher of grape juice and lowers it on the counter next to the fridge.
                          
"I did a lot of cooking this morning," she calls out from inside the fridge. "There's stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna.." She pokes her head out, meeting my gaze. "Does anything sound appetizing?"
                          
"It doesn't matter," I say. "Whatever you want."
                          
At my answer, I glimpse a flash of disappointment on her face and instantly know she's tired of having to make decisions.
                          
I clear my throat. "Lasagna sounds good."
                          
"Okay," she says. "I'll get some going right now. Are you super hungry or just hungry?"
                          
I think about it. "Just hungry."
                          
"Salad? I've got some black olives and tomatoes I could add. It's great with ranch dressing and croutons."
                          
"That sounds terrific," I remark, still standing in front of the fridge.
                          
"It won't take long," she assures me. "Have a seat."
                          
Wordlessly, I sit down on the same chair I vacated last night. I watch as Jasmine pulls out a head of lettuce and tomato from the bottom drawer of the fridge. She rinses them under the faucet, dices the tomato and lettuce, then adds both to a wooden bowl.
                          
Next, she tops off the salad with olives and sets it on the round glass table before me. She scoops out generous portions of lasagna onto two plates and pops the first into the microwave. There is a steady quality to her movements, as if she finds the simple task at hand reassuring.
                          
"I don't know about you," she says, opening one of the cupboards. "But I could use a glass of wine." She reaches inside and pulls out a sealed bottle of wine.
                          
"At noon?" I gape at her in disbelief.
                          
"I fear nothing," she says, her eyes never leaving mine as she pours wine into a glass, stopping just before the quantity brims over.