Marriage Is Not An Option. Yet.

I was talking to Philip one time and was telling him about the time I helped out my brother with making the fruit salad for his class’ Linggo ng Wika.

“Hey, that’s my favorite! I love fruit salad,” he told me.   

I smiled. “That’s good. Don’t worry, I’ll make you one someday.” Sooo not gonna happen. Unless we started moving in together and there is no way THAT’s gonna happen… I just like to make him think that I might actually cook for him. He can always fantasize about watching me toil infront of a hot stove wearing a cute teddy, stilettos and an apron, during those long cold nights.

“Do you cook by the way?”

I shrugged, “Uhhh… no.”

“Why? Haven’t you ever watched your mother cook and then ask her to teach you?”

“My mother rarely cooks, we have a maid for that. And when my mother actually does cook, it’s usually the kind of food that I would never eat, like Pinakbet or Kare-kare,” I said, scrunching my face in disgust.

He looked at me. “You don’t eat vegetables?”

“I do. But I’m picky. I will never eat okra or ampalaya (bitter cucumber) though. I have reservations about stringbeans and eggplant but I will eat them if I really had no choice.”

He smiled. “Too bad. I love a girl who can cook.”

Silence. He’s probably thinking of Midge, who can cook. And I’m thinking of him thinking of Midge, who watches him everyday as he consumes the meals she cooked for him.      

Refusing to feel depressed, I erased the sordid image in my mind and beamed at him, “My mother always asks me how will I ever survive when I finally get married and I still don’t know how to cook for my husband and my children.”

“So what do you tell her?”

“I tell her I’ll just find myself a husband who will cook for me instead.”

Philip laughs and finding me adorable, proceeds to hug me.