As soon as I said Haris was coming for dinner, my colleagues began suggesting dishes. Duck. Fish baked in salt. Something with caramelised pears. I had worked ten hours in a restaurant kitchen that day, and my only idea involved sitting down. Still, I bought expensive mushrooms because it seemed that a woman who cooked for a living had no right to invite a man over for something ordinary.
Haris arrived with wine and an empty stomach. He stressed the latter with a smile. All day, he said, he had been saving room for my famous dinner. We did not yet know each other well enough for me to tell him how much that sentence tired me. Between us were four good dates, one awkward kiss, and a great many messages that had nothing to do with food.
In the kitchen I opened the mushroom bag and realised I hated them. Only that evening, only those mushrooms. Haris stood in the doorway and asked whether he could watch me work. I said I had not started working, then heard my own voice, as sharp as the knife I had not yet picked up. He retreated into the sitting room. I remained against the fridge, angry with him and myself over a dinner nobody had explicitly requested.
I took him the bag. 'I'll cook these tomorrow,' I said. 'Tonight I'd like to order pie.' He looked surprised, then asked whether he had offended me. I sat and explained that I wanted to find out about his day without counting minutes until the meat needed turning. He admitted bragging to a friend that he was going to the best dinner in town. It had not occurred to him that even that compliment could sound like a table reservation.
The pie was late. We ate olives from the jar and debated whether a hat might repair his unsuccessful haircut. By the time the delivery driver rang, I was barefoot and Haris knew about the argument with my sister. Afterwards he washed the plates without making a performance of helping the great chef. He asked whether I would go out with him again on Saturday.
I took the mushrooms to my mother the next day. A week later I made Haris eggs for breakfast, overcooked them while we talked, and ate my share without apologising. He said he liked crispy edges. I gave him a stern enough look to make him reconsider. 'All right,' he added, 'these edges are a little difficult to love.' He stayed until noon.