All of Geoffrey’s rugby shirts were in the laundry. He had gone through six shirts in three days. He now stood at the counter in one of his best business suits with a white apron covering him as he stood in his hunter green slippers. His sunglasses were tucked into his pants pocket should Francis suddenly enter the house. The glasses gave him that veil between him and her so he wouldn’t really ever have to look directly at her. He wouldn’t think of her now, only of the piecrust that he was rolling out gently, flouring and putting extra sugar on. He loved the feel of the dough between his fingers, the powdery feel of the flour. He used the back of his wrist to brush back a strand of glossy black hair as his sky colored eyes continued to stare down the piecrust, hoping to win some sort of imaginary contest. He really hoped the grass stains would come out of his khaki’s and that the various cuts and bruises he had gotten on Sunday would heal soon. He certainly couldn’t get anymore blood on his white shirt.

Geoffrey washed his hands, using the anti-bacterial soap to help clean out the dough from underneath his ragged fingernails. He’d have to go in and get another manicure soon. The weekends of Rugby were doing plenty of damage to his body. He opened the can of Queen Anne cherries and began to glide them into the little tarts he had made with the crust. He watched as a cherry dropped into the sink. Geoffrey bit his lower lip as he looked around the kitchen. The doors were shut, as well as the blinds. He looked down the hallway and saw nothing but space. He looked above, searching for cameras, any of Francis’ security implements. There was nothing. Gingerly, he reached into the sink and plucked out the cherry. His eyes darted from side to side before he opened his mouth and dropped the cherry in. He chewed once and swallowed. The tartness of the red fruit would stay in the back of his throat till he brushed his teeth after dinner. He allowed himself a secret, personal smile as he finished filling the little pies and put them in the oven. He set the timer and headed towards the couch, flipping the radio on as he walked by. He lay down on the couch and allowed the ending aria of “Tosca” to fill his ears. He had let Evelyn force her idea of culture onto him and occasionally he still indulged in it, for memory sake, but would switch to Nirvana the moment Francis walked in the door. Geoffrey secretly wished for a beer before he fell asleep.