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: : : PAUL DREDGES TROUT IN A shallow dish of flour. Next to him, Scott sits on a stool, grating cheese into a big red plastic bowl full of romaine lettuce. Oil heats in a pan. The sound of a piano can be heard: Scott's Eric Satie disc, the Gymnopedies, spins in the little CD player that's jammed next to the toaster.
Paul looks suspiciously at the coated filets. This is the first time he's ever prepared fish and he not entirely sure that he's doing it right.
He's made a New Year's Resolution to do more cooking, part of a more general resolution to eat better. He's hoping that learning how to make good food in his own kitchen will help him to break away from just heating up noodle soups and frozen burritos and Hot Pockets all the time. Getting away from that kind of food might help him to lose weight, that's the unspoken hope. He always resolves to lose weight, but this time he's been careful not to make lose weight a formal part of the resolution, he's going to stick to eat better, which seems less intimidating. Cook more seems better yet, eminently attainable, especially since he enjoys spending his nights off here, in the kitchen with Scott; he enjoys seeing Scott enjoy the food that he has made. It makes him hunt the Internet for tiny flourishes that he can incorporate into his cooking. There are pine nuts ground up in the flour.
It's because of Scott that losing weight seems to be more important this year than ever. Because now he's with someone who actually sees his body. The first time he went home with Scott he didn't want to take his shirt off, he tried to find some kind of excuse so that he wouldn't have to. They're past that now, but he still wants the lights to be out before they take off their clothes; he still feels shame every time Scott can see his body. He imagines Scott thinking ugh, look at that pig. He felt bad enough about it that one night, both of them in bed, he managed to ask: do you think I'm disgusting?
—What? Scott had said. —Don't be ridiculous. I like your body. You're my big bear. And he'd laid his head on Paul's chest and poked Paul in the belly. Paul wants to believe him, but it's hard for him not to hear it as the sort of thing you'd say if you didn't want to hurt someone's feelings. Surely Scott wants what everyone wants, someone with a little muscle, someone who isn't quite so gross—and wouldn't it be a wonderful thing, to be able to give that to someone? He wants to be able to do that, to give that gift.
The phone rings.
—It's Lydia, Marvin calls from the other room, where the caller ID box is.
Paul looks at his hands, which are somewhat tacky after having been handling the fish. —Towel, he says to Scott.
—Here you are, doctor, says Scott. Paul takes the towel and wipes off his hands hurriedly. He's racing the voicemail, which will pick up on the fourth ring. He wins.
—Hey, honey, he says.
—Hey, Paul, she says.
—How's everything going?
—Uh, she says. —OK, I guess. She pauses, and then: —Actually, I was wondering if I could ask your advice on something.
—What's that, honey bun?
Lydia makes a small noise of frustration, as though preparing to talk about something that bothers her. Paul turns down the volume on the CD player and puts a finger in his free ear. —There's this guy— he can hear her say.
—Julius? Paul asks. The last time he talked to her—a week ago, maybe?—she was still taking the end of her relationship with Julius pretty hard.
—No, Lydia says, —a new guy. Paul looks at the oil on the stove, which has begun to release a thin tendril of smoke. —His name is Dennis and—
—Hang on for a second, Paul interrupts. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. —I need to take this, he says. —Could you throw those filets in the pan?
—Sure, Scott says.
—Hey, Paul says. —Sorry about that. The filets hit the oil and sizzle loudly.
—Am I calling at a bad time? Lydia asks.
—No, Paul says. —I mean, Scott's over, and we're getting dinner together, but I can—
—Oh, Lydia says. —I'm interrupting your dinner!
—Um, Paul says. —It's not like we're in the middle of sitting down to eat or anything, we're just getting stuff ready—
—I'll call back at another time, Lydia says. —I know you guys don't get to have dinner together all that often.
—Are you sure? Paul asks. —Cause I can—
—No, Lydia says. —It'll wait.
—It's really no problem— Paul says.
—Don't worry about it, Lydia says. She sounds as though she's maybe about to cry. —I'm fine. We'll catch up some other time. OK?
—OK, Paul says. He frowns.
—OK, she says. —Bye.
—Bye, Paul says, and she hangs up. He stands there for a second with the phone in his hand.
—Everything OK? asks Scott.
— I guess, he says. —It's kind of hard to say.
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