Page 89 of Coerced Kiss
She’s having one of those weird cravings pregnant women get, those inexplicable urges to eat strange food combinations for a reason no one can explain. Some articles I read suggested it’s their bodies’ way of telling them they need certain nutrients. Vitamin C and sodium? Others said the hormones heighten a woman’s sense of smell and taste, causing these strange culinary desires.
“Here,” I say, offering her a hand and helping her to her feet. “I’ll go get you some.”
She blinks. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
My smile is teasing. “There are twenty-four-seven shops in New York City.”
“You can’t go out looking for a shop at this hour.”
“It won’t take me long.” I grab the gun and walk to the door. Turning back, I say, “If you’re going to walk around barefoot at night, switch on the underfloor heating. I don’t want you to catch a cold. While you’re at it, go put on socks and a sweater. When I go to bed, I switch off the heat in the rooms I don’t use, but seeing that you’re sleepwalking at all hours, I’ll leave it on. In any event, it’ll take a while before the kitchen is warm.”
Leaving her with that order, I get dressed and take the Corvette out of the garage before locking up and making sure the alarm is set. I tell the men stationed outside I’ll be out and to let no one near the house.
“Shoot first and ask questions later,” I say.
They comply with a uniform, “Yes, sir.”
I use a phone app to find a few shops that are open, but none of them stock Worcester sauce. I drive from Brooklyn to Queens, making several stops on my way. It’s only at a small conveniencestore in Chinatown where I find what I’m looking for. I take the maxi size bottle of sauce and make my way to the counter. On second thought, I throw in a few cans of tomatoes, choosing diced, whole, pureed, and sun-dried ones.
The guy who rings up the items gives my sweatpants and overcoat a knowing grin. “Pregnant wife, huh?”
I pause in counting out cash from my wallet. “Excuse me?”
“The missus has a bun in the oven.” He waves at my purchases. “No man will come out at this hour dressed like he pulled on his clothes in a hurry to buy shit you can get at a supermarket in the daylight hours.”
“Something like that,” I say, giving him the money.
And I’ll be damned if I don’t feel an unjustified sliver of pride as he hands me the bag. I guess that’s how men feel when they’ve made their women pregnant. They know those cravings for ungodly food pairings are because of them, that they are the ones who planted them with their seed in their wives’ or girlfriends’ bodies, and they’ll move heaven and earth to get their females what they want.
The thought is like swallowing a mouthful of cranberries—sweet with a bitter edge. I used to raid the bush in my grandmother’s garden when we visited her on Sundays, and I always ended up with stomachache. Back then, I took a lot for granted. But I don’t want to ponder on that. I don’t want to overthink what I can’t change.
Pushing the raw memory and its painful association away, I focus on what needs to be done, which is satisfying my treasure’s craving.
When I get home, it’s five thirty. Yet Anya is still up, sitting at the island unit in the kitchen with a bowl of squishy tomatoes in front of her. She must really be desperate for the sauce if she waited for two hours.
The splatters on the cupboards are gone and the floor is shiny. I should’ve told her not to exert herself with tidying up the spillage. The cleaning team comes in tomorrow. At least she put on a sweater. I dip my head to study her legs. Socks too. I’m glad she listened.
“You battled to find it,” she says, making a guilty face.
I put my shopping on the counter. “A few shops were out of stock.”
She’s got her head stuck inside the bag before I’ve removed my coat. Pulling out the bottle of sauce by its neck, she clutches it like a treasure against her chest. “Thank you.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “You’re welcome.”
“You got more tomatoes too,” she says excitedly as she continues to investigate the contents of the bag. “Sun-dried tomatoes. Yum.”
I take a seat opposite her and watch with fascination as she removes the seal in the lid and shakes a generous amount of sauce over the messy puree in her bowl before mixing everything together. When she dips a spoon into that brownish slush and brings it to her lips, I shudder.
“Mm.” She closes her eyes and hums her approval. “Oh my God. This is delicious.” Holding out the spoon, she asks, “Want to try it?”
I squint at her meal. “No thanks.”
“Good.” She shoves another spoonful into her mouth. “More for me.”
“Your baby has strange tastes,” I note with humor.
“Tell me about it,” she says between bites. Or sips. “And I don’t even like tomatoes.” She licks a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth. “At least, I didn’t until you cooked that sauce.”