I’m leaning close enough to her that I can smell her shampoo. Her hair is thick and reddish brown, full and shiny, and her skin is the color of creamy tan suede. Mexican mother, Irish father. You know how they airbrush the skin of ladies in Playboy? I see Lynn’s body every day, I look at her skin up close, I’ve had my eye an inch above her stomach or her shoulder or her calf, and it’s flawless. It’s golden skin. Every morning after her shower, Lynn comes and stands in front of me—I’m either getting dressed or making notes for work—then she turns around and I rub cream across her shoulders, underneath the bra straps, bright-white fabric against her tan skin.

She cuts the fat off the chicken, that makes sense, but with scissors, of all things. She holds it like a little playmate, flipping it over, rocking it under the faucet. She washes out the hole in it, pouring some little pieces of red guts into the sink, shaking out the dried blood or cartilage that runs down and sticks in the drain. Sickening. Then she tears off a piece of brown paper bag and folds it, dabbing the outside of the chicken.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“It gets the old oil out of the skin.”

“Old oil? What, like sweat?”

“No, not like sweat,” she says. “Like sweat? Chickens don’t sweat.”

“I know.”

“I’m cooking you dinner and you’re gonna stand here and give me shit?”

“No! No way. This is gonna be sensational.”

I love her. Man! I really do. She’s a pistol. It’s not placating love, it’s really passionate love. Uncharted territory, yes, definitely. But that’s what love is—undefined.

“Move aside, termite,” she says to me, grabbing the bottle of olive oil.

“Termite,” I say. “Good one.”

I love how she says that—“Are you gonna give me shit?” That’s funny. The answer is yes, I am.

Lynn’s awesome, though. She knows what she’s thinking, and she knows what you’re thinking. She’s got you. She’s a keeper, as they say. I want to keep her.

“Or would you rather I’d left the feathers on?”

I say, “You’re the chef.” I mean, whatever this girl touches turns to gold.

Say something bad happened to her, and we have no control over it. All of a sudden there’s a situation. Hang on, let me start this over.

It’s hard to explain—poor kid—a month ago Lynn had to get an abortion. What a lead balloon. What a joke. It ain’t no joke.

“Give me that,” she says, pointing at the pepper, and I hand it to her. She rubs chili powder on the skin. Now the paprika, now salt, now some other stuff.