Galatea

I took a knife and cut a tomato. Sunlight streamed into the kitchen through the French windows, distributing on the green flowers on the tables. Taking my eyes off the cutting board, I glanced at the round dining table, which already contained timbale¹ with chicken and gratin dauphinois² I had prepared earlier. Only recently the renovation of our new house was completed: occasionally there was a smell of paint, but I was glad of the interior. The soft blue colour of the walls matched perfectly with the marble on the floor of the hall. The kitchen was combined with the dining room, and now I was standing behind the kitchen island, on which I cooked most of the dishes, behind were the stove, refrigerator, dishwasher and other household appliances. Opposite the kitchen was a fireplace made of dark grey stone with dark iron inserts, on which stood several small statuettes, including an onyx swan. On the wall hung a large painting by a modern French artist who specialized in landscapes: on a large canvas as wide as a fireplace, the Arc de Triomphe was depicted. Next to it was a round wooden table with a brown chair where I used to go through my mail and try to understand all the bills and documents that came in, but for the most part, it was just a piece of furniture, a stand for a large number of flowers that I had been growing since my teenage years.

“No, I’m fine here,” I said smiling softly, “Colorado Springs is not that bad, it is very beautiful,” I laughed finishing with tomato and taking cucumbers.

“I know, Felicity, but I don’t like the idea of this moving,” Eva sighed heavily and kept quiet for a bit. I replaced the cut cucumbers in a bowl and mixed all of the vegetables. My friend was convinced that I betrayed my career for the man and blamed me for that.

“Derek got an amazing opportunity for his career. Moving here was a good idea for both of us,” I added olive oil.

“You could stay here,” she said so I chuckled.

“It is not fair. We’ve lived in Paris for at least three years since our marriage,” I took the bowl and went to the dining table, where candles already stated, “I will find a job here and everyone will be happy.”

“I hate your positive,” she feigned offended, “and your perfect English.”

I heard keys in the door.

“He’s here,” I smiled coming into the hall to meet my husband, ”je t’aime, bye,” I dropped the call.

Through an open hallway door, my bare hands met the cool breeze of a Colorado autumn. I have often seen red and orange leaves swirling and playing in the street, how some of our neighbours have already begun to prepare for the Halloween season, and more and more pumpkins began to appear on store shelves. I used to be sceptical about decorating the interior, but this year I decided to add a few little things: an orange wool throw, a few small knitted pumpkins in different colours, and put some artificial leaves by the fireplace. Derek entered the house with a small smile, wearing a white shirt, grey suit and coat of the same colour, and carrying a briefcase. He stopped shaving his stubble, which left coarse, short hair above his lip and on his chin that prickled my skin with every touch, but it was foolish to deny that the new image suited the man indescribably.

I have always wondered what thoughts my husband comes home. He has an amazing ability to control his mind — we never talk about his patients, of course primarily due to medical ethics, but I’m sure Derek’s lack of desire for me to know about all the details of his job also plays a role.

“Should I be worried?” he asked touching my waist and hugging me, “hi,” he pressed his lips to my cheek.

“Hi,” I said during the kiss. He set his briefcase on the nightstand without removing his hand from my waist, after which he left another kiss on my temple.

“I made dinner,” I smiled softly, resting my chin on the man’s shoulder.

Derek raised his eyebrows in surprise, “And what was the reason for this?”

A smile dimpled my cheek, “Can’t I make dinner for my husband? Today is a special mood,” biting my lip, I took a few steps back, allowing the man to take off his coat and change from formal shoes to loose slippers.

“Flowers somehow influenced your mood?” As he unbuttoned his jacket and the top buttons of his shirt, Derek asked about the morning present he’d left on my bedside table next to my books. I crossed my arms over my chest, unconsciously turning my head towards the living room, where a large clay vase with a lush bouquet of white chrysanthemums sat on a coffee table. Biting my lip, I turned back to my husband, who noticed my satisfied face.

“They made a good start to the day,” I said, raising my eyebrows, “but not so good if you were around.”

Derek stepped closer and placed his palms on my breakers, stroking gently with his warm fingers. He smelled of bergamot, basil, iris and cloves, and his perfume was woody and spicy. Taking a deep breath of the scent, I raised my head to meet his blue eyes.

“Had to leave early, didn’t want to wake you up,” he tilted his head closer, “but I promise I won’t leave you tonight.”

Under our general ringing laughter, I quickly patted the man on the shoulder, feeling his tense muscles under his shirt, and told him to go to the shower. I shook my head, smiling, and returned to the kitchen, placing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and moving the salad bowl to the candles on the table. I walked over to the wine cabinet, taking out dry white wine. I took a lighter from the fireplace and went to the high-standard scented candles that stood near the chair and sofa, light after the light appeared in the room, then I moved to the dining table, where the wax stood between plates and glasses. I returned the lighter to its place, adjusting the figurines on the fireplace; noticing the black frame with the photo, I took it in my hands, smiling. It was Eva’s birthday, in Leon, I was standing in a red dress with deep cleavage, my long blonde hair laying on my shoulders and my lips were bright red lipstick. On the left stood a friend, in a white dress, with long white gloves. Her long dark hair ended at her chest, and the camera was lit by her brown eyes.

“Decided to arrange a date?” Derek’s booming voice came from behind me, causing me to bite my lip and turn to face my husband.

“Someone has to do this in our family,” I moved closer to him, placing my hands on his shoulders. His deep blue eyes met mine, and a strand of his blond hair fell across his faceб which was slightly wet from the shower.

“I promise I’ll get better,” Derek kissed me between my eyebrows and placed his right hand on the lumbar, pushing me towards the table. I smiled, sitting down on a chair and picking up cutlery, “did you decide to cook timbale?” the husband asked, referring to tonight’s dinner.

“No matter how hard I try, my food will never taste better than yours,” I raised my eyebrows, noticing that my husband did not sit next to me, but took a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

“Don’t focus on it,” he replied, forcefully pulling the cork out of the bottle. The muscles on his arms tensed, and the relief began to be visible. For the past few years, Derek has been actively involved in sports – tennis –, so he has gained a lot of muscle mass and has become a true sex symbol among his colleagues. I occasionally stretch, my French genetics allow me to stay thin.

“How was the work today?” I asked as my husband poured wine into glasses.

“Difficult,” he replied honestly, sitting down and immediately taking a few sips of the drink, and then proceeding to fish, “as if no one had worked there before me. There are no problems with patients, but a lot of paperwork.”

“No one said being a successful psychiatrist was easy,” I smiled softly as I piled a salad on my plate and immediately ate a few tomatoes.

“I’d prefer to work with people, than with papers,” he shook his head caustically, “What have you been doing all day?”

I shook my head, “as always: I finished reading a book I bought recently then I was painting for a few hours, talked with Eva, and cooked a dinner,” I slowly ran my fork across my plate, trying to get the right words, “Derek, you know,” I lifted my head and met my husband’s serious, bare eyes, “there is no work here that could please me,” my husband shook his head frowningly, listening to my words, “I thought about creating something on the Internet.”

“Here you have many ways of development,” he pursed his lips, “you can go to work at the university, I will clarify if they need art historians.”

“We’ve already discussed this, Derek,” I furrowed my brows, “I do not want to be a lecturer.”

“Yes, I remember,” the blond nodded, “unless you want to be a teacher, but starting your own business is a pretty good idea,” the husband agreed, eating a piece of chicken off his fork. I smiled and took a sip of wine. Colorado Springs is a big city, but among all the jobs that I looked at, there was nothing that I could like. I even explored places similar to my past work: a museum, and auction houses, but all in vain. A few weeks ago, I saw a girl’s art blog and I thought maybe I should try creating educational courses. I wasn’t completely sure about this idea, and to some extent, it even seemed absurd to me, because of this I did not tell Derek about my thoughts.

“Come here,” Derek spread his legs wider and held out his hand to me. I got up from my chair and walked over to my husband, feeling his warm hand on my waist, and sat on his hip. Putting one hand on his shoulders and the other on his cheek, I approached his face, leaving a slow kiss on his temple, “I’m sorry you can’t find a job here,” he said softly.

“Do not blame yourself. Perhaps this is a signal that I should try something new in my career,” I raised my eyebrows and chuckled as I felt his grip on my waist tighten and the man pulls me closer. I touched his forehead with mine.

“You’re right,” he smiled, “I feel like something’s missing,” my husband carefully stood up from his seat, walking over to the vinyl player I bought a couple of years ago at a cheap market in Paris. From a stack of vinyl records, the blond took out one whose name I couldn’t make out, then carefully placed it in the player. From the first notes I recognized the melody:

“Mood for Frank Sinatra ³?” I asked, laughing and holding out my hands to my husband. I put my hands on his chest and he put him on my waist.

“He’s better at speaking words of love,” my husband danced me around, ”why do I love Paris?”

"Because my love is here."

¹Pasta casserole with fillings of your choice - meat, mushrooms, tomatoes, etc. can be used.

²A popular potato side dish in French cuisine. For cooking, potatoes, cheese and heavy cream are used. For the dish not to be too fatty, the cream is mixed with milk.

³ Here I was describing I love Paris by Frank Sinatra