Wendy Markham - Slightly Engaged

I can tell by his expression that he was.

“What’s wrong with that one?” he asks. “Too dumpy?”

“Too Unabomber.”

He scowls.

“Don’t be mad, Jack. Come on. Cheer up. Do you want to invite somebody over, too?” I ask in my best toddler-soothing voice, thinking maybe poor Jackie wants a playdate, too.

“Like who?”

“How about Mitch?”

Mitch is one of his college buddies who recently moved to Manhattan and doesn’t know many people yet. I keep meaning to fix him up with one of my friends, because it’s a sin to let a cute single guy go to waste in this town.

“I can’t invite Mitch,” says Jack, who needless to say doesn’t share my views on cute single guys going to waste.

“Why not? He’s probably sitting home alone.”

“That’s better than being pounced on by a horny queen who thinks every single guy in New York is secretly closeted.”

“Horny queen?” I echo ominously. “That’s really mean, Jack.”

“It’s also how Raphael described himself in the last personals ad he ran.”

That’s right. He did. And he meant it in a most complimentary way.

He got a ton of responses, too.

“Don’t you remember what happened when you invited Raphael over the night Jeff was in town?” Jeff is an old frat brother of Jack’s.

Feigning Alzheimer’s, I ask, “No, what happened?”

“For starters, Raphael gave him a lap dance.”

“Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I guess you won’t be inviting anyone over tonight, then.”

“I guess not. You’re lucky I’m staying home at all.”

I’m lucky he’s staying home? Is it me, or should he be wearing a wife beater and belching down canned beer when he says something like that?

“I’m going to change,” he says, planting a cozy little kiss on my nose, and I promptly decide to let him off the hook.

You can’t really blame a guy for being a little cranky under the circumstances. In fact, how many straight live-in boyfriends would shave, and put on a nice polo shirt and clean jeans for a horny queen?

That’s exactly what Jack does.

He emerges from the bathroom in a mist of air freshener just as I’m about to open the door for Raphael.

“Is that Lysol?” I ask, sniffing.

“Room spray. Gristedes was out of Lysol.”

“Snoopy Sniffer is going to comment,” I warn him.

Raphael’s nose is even more discriminating about scents—good and bad—than he is about fashion.

Jack shrugs, and I open the door.

First, I should point out that with his Latin good looks, Raphael is a dead ringer for Ricky Martin. Rather, Ricky Martin is a dead ringer for Raphael because, as Raphael likes to say, he himself is still hotter than hot and Ricky is more over than pink tweed bouclé.

I should also point out that Raphael is dressed in red from head to toe this fine evening. Red leather jacket, tight red T-shirt, tight red jeans, and—

“Are those red patent-leather spats?” I ask. Ay carumba.

“Yes!” Raphael shouts joyously, and strikes a toe-pointing pose. “Tracey, do you love?”

“Hmm…” I tilt my head. “I could possibly grow to love. Where did you get them?”

“Either I bought them off a folding table on the Bowery, or at JCPenney when I was in Missouri on business last year. I forget which.”

“My money’s on the Bowery,” Jack says dryly, draping an arm over my shoulders.

“Mmm, I think it was Penney’s,” Raphael says decisively, and heads toward our kitchenette toting a couple of grocery bags.

“What did you bring?” I wriggle from Jack’s embrace and follow him.

“Everything we need for paella, including rum.”

“Rum goes into paella?”

“No, Tracey, the rum goes into us. We’re making mojitos. Oh!” He smacks his head. “I forgot something at the spice market. I knew I would.”

“What is it?” I ask, opening the narrow cupboard where we keep your basic salt, cinnamon and garlic powder. “Maybe we have it.”

I have no idea what we have, since this has become mostly Jack’s domain. It’s not that I don’t cook, or can’t cook. It’s just that ever since he cooked for me on one of our very significant first dates, it’s become our little tradition.

“I need saffron,” Raphael reveals. “Got any?”

I glance at Jack, who’s lingering on the outskirts of the kitchen because three adults can’t fit within the perimeter unless one of them is a waif.

“No saffron,” Jack informs Raphael.

“Jack!” Did I mention Raphael’s conversational style is liberally sprinkled with exclamation points and people’s first names? “Do you want to double-check? Maybe you have a smidge left somewhere.”

“Nope. I haven’t bought a smidge of saffron since…hmm, let me think—ever. Can your recipe do without?”

“It can, but…well, that’s kind of like making marinara sauce without tomatoes,” he says dramatically.

Moment of silence.

What to do, what to do…

Jack asks, “Would they have it at the Korean grocer?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, then I’ll go down to the corner and get some.”

I shoot Jack my most grateful, loving look. The look I usually reserve for situations involving my family. Or sex.

“Jack!” Raphael screams joyfully. “Ohmygodthatwouldbegreat! But…are you sure it’s not a problem?”

“Not at all.” Jack is already grabbing his keys. “We’re low on beer anyway.”

“But, Jack, I’m making mojitos,” Raphael protests.

“Will you be insulted if I just stick with a Budweiser?”

“Not at all. Will you be insulted if I tell you that I don’t really like that cologne you’re wearing? It smells a little fruity. Not in a good way.”

“I’d be kind of insulted,” Jack says, pulling on his coat. “Considering that I’m not wearing any cologne.”

“Oops! Sorry. New coat?” Raphael immediately wants to know, buzzing over to Jack like a bee that just discovered a honey slick.

“No, I got it last winter.”

“JCPenney, Jack?”

Jack looks insulted. “Barneys, Raphael.”

“You’re kidding! You know what? It would look really great in a nice tomato red. Or royal blue, with epaulets,” Raphael pronounces, rubbing the placket between his thumb and forefinger.

“Right. Well, I’ll be back soon with the saffron,” Jack says, and manages to extract himself from Raphael’s grasp.

“They call it mellow ye-llow…ba da, ba da…” Raphael sings, unloading his bags as Jack beats a hasty retreat. “Mellow ye-llow.”

The minute the door closes behind Jack, he breaks off his ditty to say, “Tracey! I thought he’d never leave!”

“Raphael! Are you telling me you didn’t really forget the saffron?”

“No. Well, yes,” he admits. “I mean, I didn’t forget it. I just kind of…you know, ran out of cash.”

“What about your credit cards? Maxed out again? I thought you were going to keep the spending in control from now on.”

“I splurged on something yesterday. Something big and juicy-licious…and no, it wasn’t human so don’t even go there.”

I presume there is the male-escort service I talked Raphael out of patronizing one lonely night last spring when he was captivated by an ad for an escort who billed himself as Lengthy Louie.

“So what was your splurge?” I ask dutifully. “And how much cash did you spend?”

“Two hundred bucks.”

“On shellfish and rice?”

He nods. “The saffron would have been forty dollars an ounce.”

“Are you kidding? Where? Your dealer?”

“Tracey, you’re funny,” he says without cracking a smile. He begins unloading his groceries onto the counter. “No, I found it at the spice market.”