There was a man in my kitchen and I could smell the cast-iron beef sizzling from the bed. I hadn't cooked in weeks. The smell alone was enough to make my eyes sting, or maybe that was something else. He wore an apron. The upper muscles of his back were particularly defined, and from certain angles, below where the apron was tied, there was more to see.
He was preparing my favorite meal. I'd had to tell him once.
My actual lover said he'd cook. That was in May, when I'd first gotten the diagnosis and he was still performing concern. There were times I could barely leave bed, but he insisted we spend weekends in Palm Springs. Because binge drinking somewhere else was easier to forget. He said, without irony, how badly he needed it, the stress, his cortisol levels, all of it was going to kill him.
What arrived, when anything did, were frozen vegan bowls from his company, tossed in his gym bag with shorts soaked through, left on the counter without a word. I was sick and he was busy being someone who dated someone sick, which is a different thing entirely. I told him I was concerned about microplastics.
I still vacuumed myself. Some filth was easier to manage than others. I did hire a laundry service because his weaponized incompetence prevented him from using the washing machine. And a dog walker because he didn’t enjoy outdoor exercise. Then I eventually outsourced companionship too.
Felix was from Niš originally, then Herceg Novi, though he'd spent years in Belgrade before immigrating. He’d been in California since he was a boy. Strong jaw, sharp features, dirty blond hair cropped military short. Three men had auditioned before him. Each thought the cooking was a preamble. It wasn’t.
His formative years had been spent with his late grandmother in San Pedro. Every night after helping her cook, they'd sit by the fireplace and she'd tell him folk stories about vampirs, zmaj, and vukodlak—vampires, dragons, werewolves from the old country.
"A giant dragon rests beneath the rocky hills where he guards underground riches," Felix began in a low, compelling voice. "Despite his size, he is peaceful, only waking when disturbed by storms or human greed. The fishermen and shepherds speak of quakes in the earth, unnatural gusts of wind, and sheep that refused to graze too close to his lair.”
The beef had started to crust. I could hear it, the low sizzle settling into the pan. I was vomiting more days than not and didn't have much of an appetite. But on these too rare dinner dates, when a man looked at me without pity or guilt, I feasted.
My apartment smelled like garlic and rendered fat and something almost like a home.
"That changes when the Kamenjak Dragon suddenly rises and spews flame across the fields above." He twisted the steel knob, causing a dramatic flare on the stove.
I leaned forward despite myself. It was the same pull I’d felt the first time Felix had cooked, when I'd realized this arrangement might actually work, that Felix understood what he was paying for.
"The villagers panic," Felix continued, turning back to the pan where the beef had developed a perfect crust. "They send their bravest knight to slay the beast. A man who has killed a hundred enemies and fears nothing."
He set the beef aside and reached for mushrooms. "But when the knight arrives at the dragon's lair, he finds the creature weeping. The dragon's tears are silver, pooling on stone. 'Why do you cry?' the knight asks. And the dragon says, 'Because I am tired of being disturbed. Tired of burning things I never meant to burn.'"
The kitchen timer rattled. Felix bent to open the oven, heat pouring out with the smell of cream and cheese. He pulled out the potatoes au gratin, golden, still bubbling.
"What about the zmaj, Felix?”
"He's here, of course."
