shewaswarned | (no subject)

Matt's instructions for showing up to dinner are fairly simple: come as you are. But the houseguest in her - or hut-guest, more accurately - insists on bringing something whenever she's invited over to anyone's place, and it's a habit started in New York that seems to have carried over to Tabula Rasa, regardless of the fact that she doesn't need to worry about impressing anyone, or climbing any particular social ladders. She brings a bottle of the island-brewed wine anyway, hoping it will somehow fit with the theme of the meal he's planning, and starts her walk over a little earlier than necessary, since it looks as though it might be dark by the time she arrives.

Her directions take her to the second path that veers right from the boardwalk she takes starting at the lifeguard stand, and if she's got it right, that means his hut is the first one on the left once she makes that turn. Praying she's remembered his instructions correctly, she makes her way up to the door and knocks, shifting her weight back slightly and then speaking up once she hears sounds from within.

"Matt? It's Ellen," she calls out, hoping to be heard through the door.

Threaded | Flat

"Come in!" I call out from the little nook that is my kitchen, so preoccupied with finishing the last touches on 'dessert' (a fruit salad that smells like a tropical slice of heaven, if I do say so myself) for the evening's meal that I trust she can manage the door on her own. My living quarters aren't what I could call spacious, but they serve my purposes just fine: clean and uncluttered, with everything down to the last sock in its rightful place. Living alone, I can't afford to be messy, and I'm not prone to nostalgic keepsakes, least of all in a place whose very name discourages such a thing.

Drying my hands on the soft, thick cloth I've had slung over my shoulder for the duration of the afternoon, I fold it across the edge of the small sink when I'm done with it, then move the dessert to the table I've set up, relying on memory to ensure I don't drop it onto the entrée. It's all cold fare (fruits and vegetables and cheeses, a pasta dish of my own creation), but it's fresh and light on the palette, the kind of meal that leaves you feeling energized and sated by its end rather than drained. I'm dressed with a similar theme in mind, my shirt a crisp button-down with the top few undone and the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, my pants a lightweight wool perfect for the weather. (Something comfortable enough for me, but hopefully stylish enough for her. It's a date. A certain amount of effort's going to go into my appearance even if I'm not the one who's going to appreciate it.)

A smile touches my lips as I walk towards the front door, clasping my hands together. Nerves aren't in my repertoire, but excitement certainly is. It's been a long, long while since I've done anything like this, and I can only hope I remember the steps as they come. "Hey."