дуже цікава ідея і дуже гарне виконання - мені надзвичайно сподобалось, рекомендую!
...We sat at my aunt's yellow table in the kitchen and ate some of the best fajitas I'd ever had in my life. The beef was tender—it must have been flank or skirt, so juicy it melted in my mouth, with a back-end bite of that smoky bourbon flavor. The seasoning was sweet yet spicy, just enough chili powder to offset the cayenne pepper. The bell peppers and onions were crisp, and they kept sizzling when he brought the pan over and set it in the "middle of the table, along with warm tortillas, sour cream, guacamole, and hot sauce.
He told me he'd learned how to make them from his roommate at that fancy culinary school of his and that it was a special family recipe, so even if I loved it, he was sworn to secrecy.
"Someday I'll convince him to open a restaurant—a food truck, at least," he added defiantly, picking at the leftover bell peppers on his plate, and he's going to thank me."
"Or else!" I joked. I took one last bite of fajita before I realized that I was stuffed and couldn't eat another bit, and I pushed my plate away with a groan. "Okay, I've decided—if you keep cooking like that, you can stay however long you want."
He tore off a bit of tortilla, picked up a piece of bell pepper and steak with it, and ate it. "That's a dangerous declaration, Lemon."
"Dangerous or genius? I've always wanted a live-in chef—like movie stars have. What's it like to just . . . have meals prepared for you. Hungry?" And I signaled to our imaginary server. "Please, I'd love some escargot by the waterfall on the pool deck out back."
He snorted a laugh. "You joke, but I know someone who does that in LA," he said. "She hates it, but the pay's good so she stays. I couldn't. They always want the same thing—low carb, low calorie, keto, cleanse, vegetarian, whatever—too soulless for me. Not adventurous enough."…
…as I dried myself off and remembered that I hadn't picked out any clothes. "Shit," I muttered, and opened the bathroom closet to try to find one of her bathrobes. Instead, I found a lovely black satin robe with a marabou feather trim. It was utterly ridiculous—the kind of expensive robe wealthy women in old movies wore, complete with a long cigarette holder and a dead body in the foyer. I snorted, pulling it off the hanger. I'd almost forgotten that she had this monstrosity. A few years ago, it caught fire thanks to her Saint Dolly Parton candle, and she ended up tossing both out the window in a panic. The apartment smelled like melted feathers for weeks.
Well, it was better than a towel, at least.
I shrugged on the robe. It still smelled like her perfume. Red by Giorgio Beverly Hills. So distinctive and intense. She'd worn it for close to thirty years…
…Rhonda sat up a little straighter, taking the letter and opening it.
"I'm sorry that this comes as a surprise—it was a surprise to me, too. I'm not sure what I want to do," I went on as she read the resignation letter, her face growing grim, "but I don't think it's this. Thank you so much for the opportunity, and I'm sorry."
Because I felt like I had wasted her time for seven years. For shaving off parts of myself, over and over again, to squeeze into the expectations I thought I needed to set for myself. I was never going to wear heels and blazers—I didn't want that anymore, and it was scary to think about, but a little thrilling, too.
I couldn't look at her as I turned to leave, but as I did, Rhonda said, "I didn't find out who I wanted to be until I was almost forty. You have to try on a lot of shoes until you find some you like walking in. Never apologize for that. Once I found mine, I've been content for twenty years."…
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