Golden Boy by Claire Thompson

Author:Claire Thompson [Thompson, Claire]
Language: nld
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Johnny stood nervously at Eric’s apartment building door. Night was just falling and he shoved his hands into his black leather jacket pockets as an autumn breeze made him shiver. He’d pressed the buzzer and was waiting for Eric’s voice over the little intercom. He was surprised, therefore, when Eric himself appeared in the foyer, opening the door. He was a little out of breath, having run down the three flights of stairs.

“Hi there,” Eric said, standing back to allow him to enter. He smiled, but not the big, open grin that made Johnny’s heart sing. He was wearing black slacks and a cream-colored cashmere sweater. He looked like something out of a magazine with one hand casually on his hip, his hair falling perfectly over his forehead. In spite of the somewhat cool reception, Johnny felt his cock harden and his heart beat a little faster.

He smiled back hesitantly. He wanted to grab Eric. To hug him tight, to shout,

“You’re still here! You exist!” Instead he just stood there, feeling awkward, his hands still in his pockets.

“Hey, come in, come in. I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure you were coming. I mean, you didn’t call?” This remark came out as a question. Johnny had made a conscious decision not to call Eric, deciding he had been too open and needy over the weekend and needed to pull back.

Eric, of course, had not called either, not wanting to reveal his own vulnerability.

Johnny remarked, his voice a study of casualness, “You didn’t call me, either.”

“You’re right. We’re both jerks. Let’s go up, okay?” Johnny laughed, the tension between them eased.

Once in Eric’s apartment, Johnny sat on his couch while Eric got them each a beer.

Johnny took a long drink from the cold bottle. “Wow, what smells so good?”

Calling from the kitchen Eric said, “I made some Puerto Rican food for you.

Something my grandmother used to make called arroz con salchichas. The key is in the sofrito. My abuela’s sofrito was the envy of all the grandmas in my neighborhood in the South Bronx.”

“Sorry? I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Eric came into the living room holding his own bottle of beer. He was carrying a little tray of something that he set down on the low table in front of the couch.

“Welcome to the world of Puerto Rican cooking. You should know this about me—I love to cook and my grandmother was my best teacher. I’ve experimented with lots of other cultures—Chinese, Indian, Italian, French, but I always go back to my own roots.

Nothing beats what you grew up on, I guess.”

70

Golden Boy

He pointed to the little fried yellow pancakes resting on a brightly colored glazed clay platter along with a little bowl of some kind of dipping sauce. They were flat and fragrant, smelling of garlic and banana. “These are platanos. Plantain bananas. This little dish is actually called aranitas—that means ‘little spiders’ in Spanish. See, those little grated pieces of banana look like little spider legs, I guess.

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