The Inside Diaries

Banane

She retrieved the bananas, methodically unpeeling each of the bundle, Fernando watching her all the while with a lift of an eyebrow. "What're you making?"

"Banana pudding—"

"Those are really—" he stepped forward, taking a sniff. "Really—"

"Ripe. I know," she answered with a laugh. "Morgana had a sale—"

"Lemme guess, seventy percent off?" Fernando asked.

She sighed. "Fell for it good, didn't I?"

"Hey, I mean, you got the makings for a really good dessert. Haven't had banana pudding in ages."

She reached (but was unable to grasp), a copper pot from above, which Fernando noticed at once and lowered for her reach. "Thanks—" she uttered, wiping a bead of perspiration from her forehead. The bananas unpeeled, she found a large wood spoon, proceeding to mash them in their entirety, their sweet fragrance permeating throughout the four walls.

"What comes next?"

"Hmm..." Melanija thought aloud. "Cornstarch, milk. We got those?"

He strode to a cabinet, pulling out the first ingredient, then meandered to the fridge, pulling out a carton. Yes and yes.

"How much do we add?"

"I think..." she paused, trying to recollect her earlier attempts, ages ago, at the dessert. "One-quarter cup milk, stirred, then two tablespoons of cornstarch—" as Fernando proceeded to do just that.

Moments later, once the mixing was complete, Fernando peered at Melanija expectantly. "Then...?"

"Place under low stove heat, to a gentle boil." So he laid the pot atop the stove, following her directions as precisely as he knew how. Several minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, as the concoction began to cook and warm, the occasional sputter indicating its approach of a near boil—

She checked her phone. Probably another couple of minutes—the writer paused, thoughts aflutter as Fernando approached her directly from behind, his arm covering her arm as she stirred the mixture, his other hand caressing her mussed hair, sniffing within, planting gentle but firm kisses upon her neck as she murmured her delight.

The writer could imagine this scene, perhaps, in which a tiny child ran about their feet. A child of their making. In this kitchen—their kitchen—she could envision a happily ever after, or something like it, while his hand continued its meandering, from her tresses to her shoulder, from the slope of her shoulder to lower, her hips, waist, and finally, with a brave reach forward, encircling her belly, swollen with the promise of new life.

Hers.

His.

Theirs.

Hearing a gasp, Fernando paused. "What is it, babe?"

She shook her head. All of this lived within her imagination. Her imagination within an imagined, alternate universe. Her wants, covert. Her desires, unrelenting though pure-intentioned they were. "N-nothing—" the writer adjusted the stove dial to low, allowing the pudding to simmer, avoiding Fernando's glance until he shifted, turning her visage toward him.

"Melanija." A statement, not a question.

Heart beating fast, she blinked rapidly. Now or never. "Do you want kids, Fernando?" Rather than let him respond, she hurried on. "I do and I don't have much time. I mean, I do, but—" she swallowed hard. "I'm almost in my mid-thirties. Even if I look a decade younger. Fertility waits for no one. And I love you. Very much. I can't imagine having kids with anyone else—but I know it's soon. Maybe..." she paused, avoiding his now-intense gaze. "Too soon," she practically whispered as she made to leave the stove. The kitchen. Rid herself of her desires, stifle them until tomorrow, and the tomorrows after that—she made to pack her phone, flee the kitchen—

An arm across her shoulder prevented that. "No," he murmured as her heart sank.

No?

"It's not too soon," Fernando hastily clarified as Melanija found the means to breathe once more, the tropical verdant air, now saturated with the intoxicatingly inviting scent of ripened fruit.

A pregnant pause—and then—

"Let's get married. Tomorrow."

Melanija gaped. "You're crazy—"

He smirked. "Just as crazy as you—"

"Seriously? Like, really?" Her legs began to shake as she walked toward the kitchen island, reaching out an arm to steady herself. Fernando followed.

"Really really."

"But the renovations—the repairs!"

"They'll get done—"

"And my writing projects—"

He smiled indulgently. "They'll be here, waiting for you. As always."

"Are...are you absolutely sure about this?" Doubt crept in, her voice quavering just the tiniest bit. Now's the time to back out if you want. Exit strategy. In case—

"As sure as I've ever been. Speaking of which—" he departed the kitchen, Melanija hearing rapid footsteps atop the stairs then in the bedroom above, plus a certain degree of rummaging, before he returned once more, none the worse for the wear. Kneeling before her, he produced a small velvet box. "Melanija, will you do the honor of marrying me? Tomorrow?"

Tears fell from her cheeks as she nodded, himself sliding the ring, a simple yet exquisite solitaire, atop her left finger. He knew. He knew and had planned this all along. "Y-yes," she whispered. Then louder. "Yes—yes!" She squealed, throwing her arms around him as he kissed her soundly, whirling her and dipping her low.

Love, light, laughter.