A Proscriptive Relationship

A Proscriptive Relationship: 14

An abundant arrangement of food was set out before me when I walked into the kitchen about an hour later. I gaped at the tempting buffet in astonishment. Mr. Heywood’s smug face greeted me when I finally looked up from the food.

            “Why did you make so much?” I inquired, gesturing towards the wide arrangement of food.

            “I don’t know what you like, so I just made a bit of everything,” Mr. Heywood responded with a casual shrug.

            “A bit?” I choked, looking at the enormous stacks of French toast and pancakes.

            “Does it not look appetizing?”

            “No, that’s not it!” I uttered quickly. “It’s just… I thought you couldn’t cook.”

            Mr. Heywood chuckled, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me to the table. He pushed me down on one of the wooden chairs and proceeded to take the seat across from me. “I lied.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but he cut me off. “Well let’s not waste it, shall we?” he asked, reaching for a large bowl of scrambled eggs.

            I nodded meekly, biting back my retort, still in shock by the enormous amount of food he had made in just under an hour. The French toast was calling my name, so I took two pieces, setting them on my plate. I drizzled some maple syrup on it and used a knife to cut off a small piece. Cautiously, I put it up to my mouth, hesitating for a moment. Mr. Heywood was staring at me so I abruptly shut my mouth, feeling a blush coming on my face. He frowned.

            “Are you afraid to try it?” he asked.

            I shook my head. “No… I’m just not comfortable eating while people are staring at me.”

            Mr. Heywood smirked. “I see.”

            He put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, gazing at me more intensely than before. I glowered at him. He was doing it on purpose. I wanted to slap that stupid, sexy, smirk right off his face. Wait? Sexy? I mentally slapped myself. I couldn’t be having those thoughts. Especially after I had spent the night in the same bad as him. It was wrong. How many times did I have to tell myself that? Maybe you should just accept it, a thoughtful voice commented in my head.

            Mr. Heywood’s phone suddenly went off. I knew his ring tone by heart now. I took the time that he looked away from me to stuff a piece of French toast in my mouth. It felt like I had just taken a bite of heaven. I chewed slowly and swallowed, trying to savor the taste. Mr. Heywood was still looking at his phone so I quickly shoved a few more pieces into my mouth.

            When he looked back up, I was in the middle of chewing all the pieces that were in my mouth. My cheeks were blown out just like a squirrel’s were when it had nuts in its mouth. Mr. Heywood snorted, trying to keep his face straight. My face flushed in embarrassment and I quickly tried to swallow the rest of the French toast without chewing. I managed to get half down before choking. Heaving, I covered my mouth with my hand, my embarrassment continuing to grow as I choked.

            Mr. Heywood was in all out laughter now. I continued to hack into my hand until my throat was cleared. Before I swallowed the rest of food in my mouth, I chewed it slowly and thoroughly. Mr. Heywood was still laughing. I glared at him.  “It’s not that funny,” I told him, my cheeks flaming.

            “Yes, it is,” Mr. Heywood responded, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. “But I’m glad you like it so much.”

            “It’s really good,” I admitted, looking down at my plate.