86 JANUARY 2020
I MET FRENCHMAN SERENDIPITOUSLY. A
mutual friend and I had stopped at a café
on a Saturday morning where he happened
to be having breakfast. He stood briefly and
asked us to join him.
Olive-complexioned, Frenchman was
in his early 40s but looked younger. At 6-
foot-4, his lanky figure had been chiseled
by tennis and soccer. I liked the way he ran
his fingers through his dark hair and the
way he sat, leaning casually with his legs
crossed. I fancied his long eyelashes, longer
fingers with perfect horizontal manicure,
his designer jeans. I thought he was beauti-
ful; I wanted to touch him.
I was obsessed with the crossword
puzzle folded into a neat quarter-page on
Frenchman’s lap while he held his pen
and coffee cup in the same hand. It was
the tough day for crosswords, and nearly
all the squares were filled.
That’s hot, I said to myself.
We exchanged pleasantries between sips
of cappuccino. Our conversation quickly
pivoted to our recent travels and global
affairs. I felt his energy as we talked. A few
minutes later, Frenchman asked me out on
a date. He wrote my phone number in the
COOKING IS AN ACT
OF LOVE. DON’T MAKE
IT COMPLICATED.
by JAMILA ROBINSON
ROMANCING
THE
STOVE
