“This is dinner,” he announced. “I had it catered for us. I know, I’m probably the only Italian man who can’t cook,” he said sheepishly. “But at least I don’t try! You wouldn’t want to taste my cooking, believe me.” Coretta laughed, happy to learn that this man actually had a flaw, and it was one she could live with. “That’s okay. What you lack in culinary talent, you make up for in artistic ability!” “Grazie,” he winked. “How about you? Do you cook?” Coretta pursed her lips, thinking of the endless sushi dinners she had endured with Jonathan. Her kitchen in Manhattan hadn’t been very amenable to cooking, and Jonathan never appreciated her meals anyway. Their tastes in food, like their tastes in virtually everything else, were in opposition. “I actually like to cook, but I haven’t had much chance lately,” she hedged. “Well, you are welcome to use the kitchen anytime. Someone should cook in there!”
