It is roughly seven PM, and so Tabi and I get to making dinner.
We utilize a recipe book. As with all other nights we have a soft refusal to cook the same thing twice unless we truly love it, so in this case we are trying something new from one of Tabi's many books, specifically one named LDLCT, which he notes is a fiction book, but which contains a detailed, prose-heavy recipe for Korean beef noodles. Of course I have cooked noodles, and many times in this specific kitchen, but Tabi still wishes to follow the book's lead. He is insistent on written instructions sometimes, and especially with meals he participates in. "The hands are fickle memory," he once explained. "Or at least mine are." I think we are both thankful for recipes that are relatively simple, and this is really nothing new for either of us. It is pretty much stir fry with a few extra steps.
We divvy up the labor and finally, finally, get back into a groove.
It is a relief.
Maybe it is a little clearer how I feel about Tabi by now. Maybe it is easier to understand what I mean when I describe him. Maybe by now I no longer need to describe him as if you have never met him. He is a complicated sort of person to pin down in words, but I would like to think that he is not so confusing in the moment. As a person, he is quite congruent. He is always as he seems to be. And I think he really does have my best interest in mind, else I would not be here, else he would not do the little things.
The little things are love, I think.
He retrieves a mixing bowl and the gochujang from a top cupboard for me, so I don't have to go get a stool and reach up. And he is doing more than half the prep work, the half I don't like which involves a knife. And as we're cooking he is working in plain quiet. I glance over and he is focused on the task of slicing up peppers and lean cuts of beef with his delicate hands. And always it seems like Tabi has other things on his mind, and it makes me sure that he has an inner world as complicated and impenetrable as mine. And it is perhaps the times I have seen Tabi vulnerable, hurt, candid, which make me love him, or something close to love. And it really is close to love, I think. It is only a few steps away. It is only my own fear of my mind that keep me from being able to call him my boyfriend.
I live in his house but I don't sleep in his bed.
I let him fuck me but I don't let him cook for me.
We are certainly past the early stages of our relationship in which I was afraid to butt into him and awkward around him. I am completely loose around Tabi now. We bump into each other in the kitchen again and again. And he is chopping peppers and makes a grimace when he accidentally gets a little juice in his face and I poke him—but he really is annoyed that he's got spicy juice on his face, so I'm laughing at his expense, but then I kiss him and the humor is back. And we try to go to separate parts of the kitchen and collide head-on and feel like idiots together.
I have started realizing that if we spill something or break something or make a mess, we will just fix the problem and move on, and then the entirety of the present moment will get washed away by the sea.
It doesn't really matter what happens in the kitchen, or in the Room, or anyplace else. Everything will be here tomorrow.
And it is that self-assuredness of Tabi's presence which reels me back into a grand and holistic happiness. It is the fact that he is not particularly going anywhere. Memory tells me Tabi's goal, which is singularly to have a person in the house he can care for. The house itself is ordinary, and in many ways so is Tabi, but his urge to caretake and love is extraordinary. I get the distinct feeling that I could be in a stasis, a completely unmoving world with Tabi, until the sun burnt out. And maybe some time after that.
We leave the duty of cleaning the kitchen to our future-selves, and instead we just plate up two bowls and scurry on over to the center of the living space. Above the fireplace lay a television, a light-capturing device made to distract the visual cortex, which is currently airing an American football game between two teams in Texas. Neither one is from Austin, so I don't really have a leg in the race.
Tabi lays on the couch. I lay to his opposite, with our legs interlocked, so that I can tease him physically, and also so that I can feel his warmth. I am a sucker for these sorts of arrangements. But quickly I forget about intimacy when I smell the divine odor of our cooking.
The rice noodles are spicy and meaty and savory and the cuts of beef are dripping with sauce and fat, and the heat is radiated in long lines of steam that fog up my face, and we are obliged to spend a while eating before a single thing is signed between us. When Tabi finally gets my attention, he is smiling ear-to-ear with food happiness, and there is a spot of gochujang on the fur bordering his lips. And he is gleeful about what he is telling me.
"I am learning something in that book I read this morning," he signs. "It was written back when a lot of people like me existed all over the place, of course, and it may allow me to restore some of your senses."
I am not sure what he means. I cock my head sideways.
Tabi gives me a warm look and taps at the side of his head. "Your hearing, my darling. I could perform a ritual to bring it back to you."
A short little pause. I mimic his sign as a question. "Ritual?"
"It would only be if you wanted. I know I've tried this before when fixing up your head, and you did not like the results. It reminded you of the Cochlear. I would only accept the results if you could hear music."
Memory confirms that this is a strange loop, that this is a subject I have complicated feelings on, that I have no answers on. I scratch at the side of my head and exhale, and I feel as if I am completely on autopilot. "I am doing alright for now," I sign. "I think."
He grins warmly. "We can wait to decide, obviously! I am sorry if it was a surprise. I know this is a subject I am woe-equipped to figure out."
Tabi's honesty makes me feel almost sorry for him. And sorry for myself. It should be a very simple thing to answer, and yet the part of me that cares about my ability to hear is gone. It is long gone. I suppose I have been swept up in the sensory world of Tabi, his touch and flowery smell, his warmth, his teeth on my neck and saliva on my tongue, and his seed matting my fur, that I have forgotten that I am missing something that he has. Or I at least have forgotten to have an opinion on the subject.
Actually this is a common theme with me.
I answer him with this: "I love when you do things for me like this, so we can try it."
"Well, are you certain?" Tabi tilts his head to match my gesture. "I thought you'd be excited, but I suppose I've just let you down before."
Without meaning to, I shift to get lower in the futon. "It doesn't really matter to me either way, for some reason."
"That is perfectly alright. You can feel any way you wish about this kind of thing, my love." Tabi shrugs plainly, spooling up noodles and a pile of peppers in one grand bite. The air is filled with sesame and spice and it is difficult to think on the subject, difficult to think about anything but food. Actually this is why I like food in general, because it is a fantastic and nonpermanent damage to the psyche that allows you to forget the world a little bit. And when it is so fragrant as these noodles I am constantly distracted from it.
I dip my head down to keep nibbling on what's left.
Eventually I am food-happy too, and defeated with just a few bites left in the bowl. At some point the football game ended and the Cowboys won by four points. I am unsure if Tabi has a fondness for sports and I am unsure if I do, either, but it occupies the eyes, so I watch the subtitles as a few commentators talk about the game and the players and the events, and how the pass percentage was high, and so on. And the flashy graphics and all the screen transitions and talking heads meld into a burning soup. At the bottom there is a ticker that tells me that a team called the New England Patriots are almost out of the race for the playoffs, which is a tournament to decide which group of human beings is best at playing football. It also tells me that it is the eleventh of December. And also it tells me that some player is trying to get traded between teams, and a coach is being yelled at, and so on. And a lot of this is babbling nonsense and so it is only retinal food, not brain food.
Then again, that feels perfect.
Tabi is giving me a footrub, playing with me, playing with my attention. And after a while of this his hands go free and he asks, "Was this a stupid thing to put on?"
It's an amusement to me and I laugh. "No, but I was never really invested in football anyway. Just something to watch, and I like it for that."
He shrugs. "I suppose that means you won't start ignoring me in favor of sports, which is a relief." And he gives me a smirk.
"Obviously." Tabi in his entirety, his entrancing and warm gaze, are obvious to me. There is nothing that would surpass it. But as an aside I mention, "I like watching stuff with you though. So we could find something that's more fun."
A moment, as he ponders this. I spot the television remote float over from who-knows-where and land in Tabi's lap on its own volition. "We could look," he signs. "Cav—another friend from a bit ago—liked hockey, taught me about it. Was there anything in Austin you were a fan of?"
"Literally nothing," I sign, chuckling. "Or I mean a few things, but nothing that I want to do now."
He taps his long chin. "Right, then. Is it too soon to suggest competitive bowling?"
A pang of discomfort and amusement hit me at the same time. "Yes, probably. What about you? Do you have anything you'd really enjoy showing me?"
There's a short pause as Tabi gathers his thoughts on the matter. "I like showing you all kinds of things," he signs, "but we do that enough in the Room, right? I simply don't want you to feel left out on this."
"I don't," I assure him, and then feel unsure. "Or at least I guess I think I don't."
"Is it just one of those nights you don't want to have a whole conversation about things?"
And I nod immediately. He understood me before I understood me. "I'm just happy and tired," I sign. "And we can talk about this later. Maybe we should just get drunk?"
Tabi takes a deep, resolute breath. "Absolutely. Okay, but first I would like to tell you something. Is that alright?"
"Of course."
The great big sheep who keeps me happy starts to unlock from our position on the futon. He has put his empty bowl of noodles aside and lifts up, his beautiful form curling and uncurling as he floats into a position where he can more adequately smother me with his body. He looms until he is three inches above my form, grinning, huffing into me. I can't wipe the smile off my face. The closeness is almost overwhelming.
"My love," he signs, "tonight and all nights, I am so thankful for your company. Thank you for staying with me even though it was crap most of the time today. I am deeply infatuated with you and your mind for the world, and I can't wait to see the rest of what it has to offer us."
And for the first time in a while I am able to return the love, the favor. If only through words. I am able to sign back, "I love you so much, Tabi. Thank you, too."
"You make it sound transactional, darling." He snickers. His breath on my face feels like a tickle. "Well, so long as you like this, all of this, I am glad I'm satisfactory."
Due to functions of magic and the occult, Tabi is able to lower his body to give me a kiss. And then I turn it from one kiss into an infinite kiss by gripping the back of his head and wrapping a hand around one of his curled horns. And light and darkness around us turns into a flashing kaleidoscope of rainbow color, all the many waves splitting into glass.