Chapter 2: The Pasta Trap
The confession hung in the air like kitchen steam, a humid truth neither of them mentioned as Rina busied herself at the stove. Timothy stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, unsure where to put his hands, his body.
“Don’t just fossilize,” Rina said without turning, her voice cutting through the sizzle of onions hitting hot oil. The sound was a soft, fragrant explosion. “You can help. Come chop.”
He moved to the narrow kitchenette, a space not designed for two people. Rina’s hip brushed against his as she reached for a clove of garlic. The contact was fleeting, warm through the thin cotton of her dress. “Knife’s in the block. The basil needs to be chiffonaded. Do you know what that means?”
“Cut into thin strips,” he murmured, grateful for the technical instruction. He selected a chef’s knife, testing its weight.
“Smart boy.” She smiled, stirring the onions. “You know, for a lock-picking deviant, you have very trustworthy hands. Precise.”
He flushed, focusing on the vibrant green leaves. The scent of basil was sharp and clean under his nose, a welcome anchor.
“So,” she said, her tone conversational as she crushed the garlic with the flat of her knife. A more pungent, earthy aroma joined the sweet onions. “That story. The shirt. It was about the smell, wasn’t it?”
His knife stilled. He kept his eyes on the cutting board. “Part of it. Yes.”
“Mhm.” She scraped the garlic into the pan. “That’s a powerful sense. Very intimate. It bypasses… everything. Logic. Propriety.” She leaned her weight against the counter, turning her head to look at him. Her blonde hair curtained her cheek. “Was that the only time you’ve ever wanted something you knew you shouldn’t have?”
Her voice was low, a librarian’s whisper in the non-fiction aisle. It wasn’t like Mira’s interrogation. This was softer, more dangerous. It felt like she was gently prying open another, deeper lock.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he whispered back, the rhythmic chop of his knife the only steady thing in the room.
“Sure you do. Attraction is messy. It doesn’t follow rules. A person can know something is… ill-advised. A bad idea. A terrible match. And still want it so much it feels like a physical ache.” She paused, letting the words settle into the simmering sounds of the kitchen. “Has that ever happened to you, Timothy? The wrong person feeling inexplicably right?”
He couldn’t answer. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He was acutely aware of every inch of space between her body and his, of the floral-soft smell of her that was now braided with the savory scents of dinner.
The bathroom door flew open with a bang.
Mira sauntered out, a cloud of steam billowing behind her. She had, technically, put on pants. They were black boy-shorts, so brief the frayed cuffs of her sweatshirt hung lower. Her legs, glistening and still damp, were completely bare. She padded into the kitchen, her feet slapping softly on the linoleum.
“Airing out the temple,” she announced, reaching past Timothy to pluck a piece of basil from his pile. She chewed it thoughtfully. “Smells good in here. Smells like… confession and carbs.”
She hoisted herself onto the small kitchen table, disregarding the placemats. The position hiked the shorts up even further. She crossed her ankles, completely at ease. “So, what’s the verdict, Rin? Is our resident fetishist redeemable?”
“We’re exploring deeper themes,” Rina said lightly, pouring a splash of red wine into the pan. It hissed violently, releasing a deep, alcoholic perfume.
“Ooh, themes. I love themes.” Mira swung her legs, her heels thumping softly against the table leg. Her eyes, sharp and green, pinned Timothy. “Let’s explore a practical one. Based on your criminal profile, you have a type. Let’s hear it. The Ideal Woman. Detail by painful detail.”
Timothy’s knife slipped, skidding off the basil leaf. “That’s not… I don’t have a blueprint.”
“Everyone has a blueprint,” Mira countered. “Even if it’s just scribbled on a napkin. Is it the volleyball player? Sporty? Clean-smelling? Ponytail?”
“Stop badgering him,” Rina chided, but she was smiling into the sauce.
“I’m conducting research. For science. Start with the basics, Lockpick. Hair.”
Trapped again. He looked from Mira, grinning on her perch, to Rina, whose back was turned but whose shoulders were poised, listening. He surrendered.
“I don’t… have a strong preference. For hair.”
“Liar.” Mira popped another basil leaf in her mouth. “You’re an detail guy. You notice. Long? Short? Curly? Straight? Color?”
He felt the answer was a betrayal of some kind, but the pressure was too great. “Long, I guess. Wavy.”
Rina reached up to twist her own long, wavy blonde hair into a loose knot, securing it with a pencil from the counter. The movement was effortless. She said nothing.
“Noted,” Mira said, her grin widening. “Eyes?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s vital. Blue? Brown? Green like mine, which you have been studiously avoiding looking at?”
“Brown,” he said quickly. “Or blue. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to the blueprint. Body type. This is where it gets juicy. Volleyball player was athletic. Lean. Are we sticking with that? Or have your tastes… matured?” She gestured vaguely at herself and then at Rina’s curved silhouette by the stove.
His face was burning. “I haven’t conducted a study.”
“Bullshit. Everyone has a catalogue in their head. Are you a leg man? An ass man? Do you appreciate the architectural sweep of a collarbone? The profound philosophical implications of a nice pair of—”
“Mira!” Rina laughed, a genuine, ringing sound. “Let the man breathe. He’s turning the color of my marinara.”
“Fine, fine. We’ll circle back to the topography. Personality. Go.”
He was drowning. The kitchen was too hot. The aromas of garlic, wine, and basil were suddenly overwhelming, mixed with the clean, damp scent of Mira’s skin and the lingering lavender on Rina’s wrist as she reached for the salt.
“Kind,” he stammered. “Quiet.”
“Quiet?” Mira snorted. “You’d be bored in a week. You need someone to keep you on your toes. Someone who calls you on your weird little shit. Someone who isn’t afraid to be a little… demanding.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want demanding,” Rina offered, stirring slowly. “Maybe he wants softness. Someone who makes him feel safe. Someone who smells like vanilla and understands his silences.”
The way she said it felt like a caress. It felt like a test.
Mira leaned forward from her perch on the table, bringing her face closer to his. “But softness doesn’t make you steal shirts, does it? Softness doesn’t require lock picks. You wanted something specific. Something that got under your skin. That’s not about quiet kindness. That’s about hunger.”
Their words wove around him, a double helix of temptation. Rina’s version was a gentle sanctuary. Mira’s was a thrilling precipice. Both were, in their way, completely terrifying.
“I think,” he said, his voice cracking, “the sauce is burning.”
Rina turned back to the stove with a small, secret smile. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”
Mira didn’t move. She studied him, her head tilted. The damp ends of her hair brushed her jawline. “You’re a fascinating puzzle, Timothy Waltz. All these precise, orderly lines on the outside.” She reached out and poked his chest, right over his sternum. Her finger was warm and blunt. “And a full-on, five-alarm garbage fire of weird wants in here. I like it.”
She hopped down from the table, her landing a soft thud. She opened the refrigerator, the light washing over her, and pulled out three beers, de-capping them on the edge of the counter with a practiced twist.
“Here.” She shoved a cold bottle into his hand. “You earned this. Welcome to the weird.”
The beer was blessedly cold in his hand. He took a long pull, the bitter hops washing over his tongue, a temporary anchor in the sea of their attention.
Rina brought the steaming pot to the small, circular table wedged in the corner. “Sit,” she instructed, placing down a bowl of spaghetti coated in her rich, aromatic sauce. The table was hardly big enough for three, forcing their knees into unavoidable proximity.
Mira slid into her chair, her bare knee immediately knocking against Timothy’s. She left it there, a warm, unyielding point of contact. “So, rule number one of family dinner,” she said, twirling a huge forkful of pasta. “No phones. Just brutal, soul-baring honesty.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Timothy managed, carefully lifting his own fork.
“It’s a promise,” Rina corrected gently, smiling as she shook parmesan over her plate. “We like to… share. It builds community. For instance, I had a date last night.”
Timothy focused on the mechanical task of winding spaghetti. The strands kept slipping.
“With the graphic novelist from the pop-up market,” Mira added, her mouth full. “The one with the tragic beard and the profound misunderstanding of sleeves. How’d that go?”
“It was lovely,” Rina began, her tone warm and conversational, as if discussing the weather. “We went to that little wine bar on Dundas. He was charming, very attentive. Good kisser.” She took a delicate bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Excellent hands. Pianist’s hands, you know? Long fingers.”
Timothy’s own fingers felt clumsy around his fork. He nodded, staring at a particularly robust meatball.
“But here’s the thing,” Rina continued, sighing a little. “Sometimes the packaging doesn’t quite match the product. Aesthetically, he was all there. But then…”
Mira leaned in, her eyes glinting. “The grand reveal was lacking?”
“It wasn’t lacking,” Rina clarified, spearing a piece of garlic. “It was just… succinct. Surprisingly modest for a man who wore such statement rings.” She took a sip of wine. “I’d say a firm five inches. Tops.”
Timothy choked. A strand of spaghetti caught in his throat, burning with pepper flakes. He coughed violently, reaching for his water.
Mira pounded him on the back, her laughter booming in the tiny kitchen. “Whoa there, Lockpick! The truth is a spicy meatball, isn’t it?”
Tears welled in his eyes from the coughing fit, his face flaming. He could not look at either of them.
“It’s a perfectly serviceable size,” Rina continued, unfazed. “Really. It’s about technique, not topography. But one does hope for a certain… architectural ambition. You understand, Timothy, being in that field.”
He did not understand. He was adrift in a conversation he had never, in his most secret imaginings, prepared for.
“Five is generous,” Mira snorted, swirling her wine. “I had a guy once, built like a brick shithouse, you’d expect a corresponding monument. Nope. A shy little acorn. It was almost cute. Like finding a bonsai tree in a cathedral.”
Timothy shoved a large forkful of food into his mouth to give himself an excuse not to speak. The sauce was tangy and rich, but he tasted none of it.
“The real tragedy,” Rina said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “is when they have the ambition but not the foundation. All ego, no stamina. That’s the true letdown.”
“Preach.” Mira clinked her bottle against Rina’s glass. “So your artist was a quick sketch, not a sprawling mural. Did you finish the date?”
“I was polite. We shared a cab. I gave him a peck on the cheek and told him I’d see him around the market.” She shrugged, a graceful, dismissive gesture. “No harm, no foul. Just not… memorable.”
Their casual dissection was a form of violence on his nervous system. Every word painted an unwanted, vivid image. He felt sweat prickle at the back of his neck, under his arms.
“What about you, Timothy?” Mira asked, her voice slicing through his panic. “Any tragic dating histories? Any shocking reveals? Inflated expectations met with deflating reality?”
He shook his head, still chewing the now-flavorless mass in his mouth. He finally swallowed, the lump traveling down his throat like a stone. “No. Nothing to… report.”
“Nothing?” Rina’s expression was one of gentle, incredulous pity. “Not even a disappointing fumble after a formal?”
“My high school had ninety-seven people in my graduating class,” he muttered, staring into his plate. “The gossip-to-reality ratio was unsustainable. I avoided the entire ecosystem.”
Mira barked a laugh. “A virgin. I knew it. The Honesty is palpable. It radiates off you like anxiety pheromones.”
“Mira,” Rina chided, but she was smiling again, that perpetual, warm curve of her lips. “Don’t bully him. It’s sweet. It means his blueprint is still theoretical. Untarnished by the shoddy workmanship of the real world.”
“Theoretical is boring.” Mira’s knee pressed more firmly against his under the table. “Theory needs field testing. You need data. Experiences. Even bad ones give you a baseline.”
“Not everyone collects data like you do, Mira.” Rina’s tone was light, but something flashed in her eyes—a challenge, or an understanding. “Some people prefer a quieter, more curated… research process.”
Timothy felt like the sole specimen under two brilliant, conflicting microscopes. One was harsh, halogen light, exposing every flaw. The other was a softer, warmer lens, but it saw no less deeply.
He took another desperate gulp of beer. The citrus and hop notes were now utterly lost on him. All he could smell was the garlic, the wine, the faint salt of Mira’s skin from across the table, and the clean, floral whisper of Rina’s perfume every time she moved.
“Well,” Rina said, scooping the last of her sauce onto a crust of bread. “My disappointing data is your gain. More homemade pasta for you two. Unless you’re finished, Timothy? You’ve barely touched yours.”
He looked down. His plate was still full, the spaghetti congealing slightly. He had been moving it around in a slow, pathetic spiral for ten minutes.
“I’m… it’s really good,” he stammered. “I’m just… acclimating.”
“To the food,” Mira finished for him, her grin wicked. “Or to the conversation?”
He didn’t answer. He simply wound another forkful, lifted it, and met Mira’s gaze as he ate it. Her eyebrow arched, impressed by the tiny, silent act of defiance.
The meal continued, the conversation drifting to Mira’s shift at the bar, a rude customer, the leak under the sink. But the air remained charged, thick with the implications of everything that had been said. Every glance felt loaded. Every accidental brush of a hand felt like a deliberate cipher.
Timothy finished his plate, each bite a mechanical act. His face still burned, a permanent, hot blush he feared might never fade. He was adrift in their world, a world of loud truths and quiet provocations, and the only map he had was the frantic, pounding rhythm of his own heart.
He was adrift in their world, a world of loud truths and quiet provocations, and the only map he had was the frantic, pounding rhythm of his own heart. It continued to hammer against his ribs as the final bits of pasta were cleared, a relentless metronome to his confusion.
He stood to help clear the plates, his movements clumsy. His elbow knocked a nearly empty beer bottle. It wobbled, a slow teetering arc, before Mira’s hand shot out and caught it an inch from the table’s edge.
“Steady,” she said, her fingers curled around the glass neck. She didn’t let go immediately. “We haven’t broken you yet. Promise.”
The dishes were piled in the sink with a clatter that felt too loud for the small space. Rina ran the hot water, steam rising to fog the window overlooking the fire escape. Timothy hovered, holding a damp cloth, unsure of his role.
“Just wipe,” Rina instructed, nodding to the table. “We’ll deal with the biohazard zone tomorrow.” She plunged her hands into the soapy water, her sleeves rolled to her elbows.
He scrubbed at a spot of dried sauce, the red stain resisting. The quiet was different now, filled with the domestic sounds of cleaning. It felt, for a moment, shockingly normal.
“So,” Mira said, leaning against the counter, watching him. She crossed her arms, which pulled the fabric of her tank top tight across her chest. He focused on the linoleum. “That was a lot. For a Tuesday.”
Rina laughed softly, handing a clean plate to Timothy to dry. “It was. We probably ambushed you.” Her voice lost its performative edge, becoming simpler. More direct. “We’ve lived alone together for three years. Just us.”
Mira took up the thread, her tone unusually flat, explanatory. “No guys. No parents. No random roommates. Just two women in a shitbox apartment.”
“And when it’s just you,” Rina continued, rinsing a wine glass, “you stop performing. You stop pretending you don’t fart or that you always put the cap on the toothpaste. You talk about stupid, crude things because there’s no one to shock.”
Mira picked at a callus on her palm. “The point is, we got used to being animals. No audience. No filter. We talk about bad dates and body stuff and stupid cravings at 3 a.m.” She looked at him directly. “And now there’s you.”
Timothy set the dried plate carefully on the stack. He understood the subtext. He was the audience. The new variable in their unrestrained equation.
“We’re being nosy,” Rina admitted, drying her hands on a tea towel. “It’s awful, I know. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to have a polite stranger in our space. We’re poking at you to see what you’re made of, to figure out where the lines are. If there are any lines.”
Mira pushed off the counter. “What she’s trying to say, in her nice-librarian way, is that we’re going to be gross. We’re going to leave hair in the shower drain and talk about our periods and rate the penises of our failed Tinder matches. Because that’s what we do. We’re not delicate flowers. We’re mammals. We sweat and we crave salt and we get horny and petty.”
The words hung in the steamy air, bald and uncompromising.
“So, sorry,” Mira said, though it didn’t sound entirely like an apology. It sounded like a statement of fact. “For the full-court press. For the interrogation about your theoretical dick preferences. But I’m not gonna promise it won’t happen again. The filter’s broken. We don’t know where the off switch is.”
Rina nodded, a strand of blonde hair falling from her pencil knot. “It’s fair if you hate it. Or if you need us to… dial it back. But we wanted to explain. This is the ecosystem you’ve moved into. It’s a little feral.”
Timothy looked at the cloth in his hands, at the faint pink smear of sauce. The frantic pounding in his chest had slowed, replaced by a heavy, warm understanding. They weren’t monsters. They were just… unguarded. Their honesty, however brutal, was a kind of respect. It was the opposite of the whispering halls of his high school.
He balled up the cloth and tossed it into the sink. It landed with a wet splat.
“Okay,” he said.
Mira blinked. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeated. He met her gaze, then Rina’s. “The honesty is… better. Than pretending. I appreciate it.”
A slow smile spread on Rina’s face, genuine and relieved.
“But,” Timothy continued, the word cutting the quiet. He felt a strange, new nerve twitch to life. “If we’re being honest about being animals…” He paused, gathering the courage. “You should know your territorial marking is confusing. One minute it’s a symphony of…” He waved a hand, searching for the phrase he’d overheard her use. “Architectural critique. The next it’s a surprise ambush about my virginity. A predator would pick a strategy.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Mira’s mouth opened slightly. Then a booming laugh erupted from her, raw and surprised, filling the kitchen.
“Holy shit,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach.
Rina pressed her lips together, but her eyes crinkled with unrestrained amusement. “He’s got a point, Mira. Your predation technique is scattershot.”
“Territorial marking,” Mira repeated, shaking her head, her auburn hair catching the dim kitchen light. “You’re a funny little bastard, Lockpick. Okay. Fine. Point taken.”
Timothy felt the warmth in his own cheeks, but it wasn’t from shame this time. It was something else. A spark. He’d navigated a rapids and hadn’t capsized. He’d even steered, for a second.
Rina stepped forward and, in a movement so natural it stole his breath, adjusted the collar of his shirt where it had folded under. Her fingers brushed the skin of his neck. It was a fleeting, sisterly touch, but his whole awareness narrowed to that point of contact.
“Welcome to the jungle, then,” she said softly, her blue eyes holding his. “It’s messy. But we don’t bite.” She glanced at Mira, whose grin turned wicked. “Hard.”