Delia scrunched her eye up to the peephole and watched Rodney’s tiny rounded figure rock and toddle its way up the sidewalk, growing larger step by step. She took note of the fact that his cardigan buttons weren’t aligned, leaving a triangle-like flap to dangle at the bottom. But by the time he was large enough to fill the circle of glass, she’d determined not to care about that. Men in this town were scarce, and she’d snagged one. Imperfections be damned.
She opened the door before he had a chance to knock, and glanced over his shoulder at the house across the street. Just in time to see the lacy curtains of the front window swing back into place. Well, if Esther was going to spy, Delia would give her something worth watching. She patted her blue-white hair and joined Rodney on the welcome mat, getting a firm grip on his shoulders to hide his surprised recoil.
“Darling!” She moved her hands to his leathery cheeks and pressed her lips to his—all the while slanting her eyes over to Esther’s, where she was sure she could see the shine of bifocals through the lace.
As soon as she loosened her grip, Rodney made a move to swipe at his mouth with the back of his hand. Delia yanked him inside and shut the door with a twirl.
“Come on into the kitchen, Rodney. There’s a warm batch of crumbles waiting.”
“Those lemon things?” Rodney followed her like a trusting child, taking the few steps from the front door straight to the eat-in kitchen. An efficiency home, the realtor called it. A fancy word for tiny.
“Yes, Rodney,” Delia said. “My blue-ribbon sour lemon crumbles.” She helped him settle into the metal and vinyl chair, his knees and the chair legs creaking together like deep-voiced crickets.
She reached over to the counter for the plate of crumbles, daintily lifting one foot behind her the way Mother had taught her so many years ago.
Delia set the plate in front of Rodney, settled in her chair, and watched the first soft, yellow-white pastry disappear into his mouth. She tucked her hands beneath her chin and pressed her thumbs into the soft flesh—what she called her gooseneck—to hold it up.
But her eyes drifted toward the front door, and she thought again of Esther. She huffed. “Know what Esther would say? She’d say you’re only here for the crumbles.” Rodney didn’t argue. But, Delia reasoned, his mouth was full. It would be rude to talk with his mouth full. She sank her hips deeper into her chair and sighed. “She’s jealous, is what it is. Jealous of you and jealous of my blue ribbons. Truth is, I think Esther’s waiting on me to die. It’s the only way she’ll win the blue ribbon for her raspberry tarts. I’ve won it six years in a row now, with her always coming in second. Her problem, you know, is the raspberries. Lemons aren’t as persnickety as raspberries.” She leaned on the last word and wrinkled her nose. “And any fool can make a tart. Ha! Tart! Suits her, don’t you think? Just like her name does. Esther.” She snorted. “Rhymes with pester!”
When Rodney winced, she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she muttered through her fingers. “I’m being mean.”
Rodney shook his head and pointed at his tongue, which he’d pushed out of his wide-open mouth. Delia leaned forward, tsk’ing. “Mercy, Rodney. You’ve got a doozy of a canker sore. Ought to lay off of these.” She reached across the table for the plate.
He thrust out his hand and laid it on top of hers, stricken.
“But Rodney, it’s the citrus. The acid in the lemon.” She patted his wrist with her other hand. “You can get back to them in a week or so. Here, I’ll make you a nice, soothing tapioca.” She scooted back to rise. Rodney frowned.
For a moment all was silent but for Rodney sucking on his tongue. Then he stood, knocking the chair so it wobbled, threatened to fall, then settled. He spoke around a rattle in his throat, his eyes fixed on the plate in the center of the table. “I think we ought to stop seeing each other.”
Delia’s hand fluttered to her chest. Her mouth worked to speak as Rodney readied himself to go, patting all his pockets: front, rear, chest, rear. She stayed silent as she watched him shuffle toward the front door.
Oh, Lord. The front door.
She rushed after him, and when he paused with his hand on the knob, Delia felt a surge of hope. He turned a bit to face her.
“Raspberries,” he said. “Are they citrus? Will they bother my…?” He waggled a finger at his mouth.
Her lips parted and the breath rushed out. “No.”
When he closed the door behind him, she couldn’t help herself. She scrunched her face up to the peephole again and watched him shrink away, straight across the street to that face behind the curtains.
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Mandy Houk writes character-driven fiction, sometimes rooted in historical settings, and occasionally funny. She’s been published in nonfiction, poetry, and short fiction. Her book-length fiction is represented by Elisa Saphier of MacGregor and Luedeke Literary. You can virtually visit her at mandyhouk.com and you can correctly pronounce her surname by saying “Howcome” without the “um.”