She wipes her wet hands quickly on her crisp white apron before cautiously placing the plates on the drying rack. The dinnerware is pale, thin and fragile. The light from the kitchen window passes through the pristine discs, falling flat on the tiled floor every time she carefully places one plate at a time in front of the Mediterranean sun. The dishes are white and pure as Virgin Mary’s porcelain cheeks. She constantly worries about staining them when they serve gravy on the plates along with bread. The serving time is a pain for her.
From the kitchen window, through the corner of her eyes, she sees him walking away in the distance. Quick to her feet, she reaches the open window, half of her body, small and ripe, hangs out balancing on her two thin hands. She squints her eyes to find him against the blazing sun. He looks wild with his long untamed hair and freckled face. Not exactly handsome, but when he smiles, his whites flash against the brown of his skin, reminding her of the clean dishes.
The thought makes her nervous. Something flutters at the small of her back. She often invites him in the garden under the mulberry tree for a late afternoon lunch, sitting quietly on the opposite and observing him chew the scones that she has baked, fresh from the oven. She has been liberal in adding chunks of chocolate to the dough before rolling them into balls. The sweet nuggets, now gooey hot and sticky, stain the front of his teeth. He slowly licks them with his tongue before taking another big bite. His teeth, a set of perfect white squares, look healthy. Maybe she can get some blueberry tart instead. The thick dark sweetness of the tart will be difficult to wipe clean at one go. She doesn’t care about his lips or his firm chin. It is the set of white teeth that pulls her towards him.
He laughs a lot when he talks, flashing his teeth bare in the sun. She has a sudden urge to quickly touch them, pass her index finger over each of the squares. Blood rushes to her face with excitement. Her face is small and round, almost lost in the cloud of her short dark curls. Her lips are small as well, faintly peach settled on a small chin. But her brows are thick, heavy set. An odd contrast to the rest of her fragile features. She turns back from the window and places the rest of the dishes and bowls back on the shelf. They feel hot at her touch. The heating rack dries them warm. She wonders how it will feel if she can...
Maybe she can make cream of soup for him with shredded carrots garnishing it with celery. Then there is a chance of getting the flecks stuck in between the ridges. They look tightly placed in a row. Still, she is hopeful that a bit of orange and green may remain stubbornly stuck. Indeed, it will be difficult if not rinsed. She can be of help then. She cups her palm with water for him to rinse. She can if she is allowed to. She gets nervous again and gulps her thoughts down. She feels the same when they serve piping-hot yellow butter gravy on the chicken thighs, and the silver knife slips and scratches the surface of the pristine white plates. Why do they have to eat on these plates, she wonders.
All done and stacked, she goes back to the window. He is nowhere to be seen. The hot humid air floats free from the heating rack and wafts out in the air like smoke. She pats her fingers dry and lights a cigarette, quickly glancing at the door. Madam doesn’t like her to smoke in the house. But she is too nervous today. They have a party tonight, and they are serving stuffed boar with rosemary and cherry tomatoes. She will have to rinse each plate twice tonight, one at a time, taking up almost half the night. She knows he goes out from his quarters before his dinner. The gardener’s quarters are beside the kitchen wing, next to the bed of peonies. He goes out to smoke. She has smelled it near him and wonders if it lingers on his ivory rows. Smoking stains the teeth. She wishes she could warn him not to, but she has hardly spoken to him earlier, let alone pass a statutory warning. His cheeks hollow in a while he sucks in the smoke and then slowly puffs out the smoke in wavy rings. They are defined and round when they come out from his mouth but slowly loosens as it floats to vanish in the night air. She has this sudden sharp urge to put her nose and smell them, his rows of teeth.
She is not interested in his tight lips, the firm jaw or the cleft that divides it two. It is the row of ivory white that draws her. They will remain forever, even when he is no more, the rest of him lost and gone in the soil. She feels a sudden excitement, and her hands shake in nervousness. How about suggesting that he write down a note gifting her his row of his ivory whites when he is buried! Perhaps she can tell him now.
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