Six Minutes ‘til I Love You
By Cooper Baltis
Anything to make her happy, he thought, as he lit three Christmas candles in the bathroom of his small apartment. He checked his watch again for the umpteenth time. Six minutes, she would be there in six minutes and in six minutes, give or take a minute or two, or not, he would tell her that he loved her for the first time. The first time. The big bang. The first hurrah? In six minutes she would be standing in front of him, in the flesh, in the black dress suit she always wore on Thursdays. She would probably have a Christmas tree pin affixed to the collar.
She was a scrupulous woman, raised in on military bases around the world, an army brat, the type of girlfriend who made your bed and tucked the corners with sniper precision while you were shaving in the other room. This is why he knew she would be on time. She hadn’t been a single minute late in the year since they had started dating. Curiously, she had never been a single minute early either. One time, he even set his cell phone clock ahead by five minutes, just to play devil’s advocate. Somehow, be it divine grace or a clever taxi driver, she arrived five minutes early that day—on time as always.
He poured a package of green apple Turkish bath salt into the bath and started the hot water. A Frank Sinatra Christmas album softly wavered in from the stereo in his room. He heard the oven timer go off in the kitchen and closed the shower curtain. Spinning on his heels, he left the water running and went to check on the casserole. He grabbed his oven mitt, the mitt that she had bought him with the gimlet-eyed rooster’s head at the gripping point, and opened the oven to pull out the casserole.
“No,” he said aloud. “No,” he said aloud again, just to make sure someone said it.
With his mitt-less hand, he felt the top of the casserole. It was lukewarm at best, partially cooked. The corn still sat on top of the casserole in the cream of mushroom soup that had yet to harden and the cheese that had halfway melted. He looked at his oven temperature: 250 degrees. He could have sworn that he had set it to 350. He glanced up at his microwave, which sat on top of his refrigerator, and nodded like mad professor. He would have to nuke it.
Searching through his kitchen utensils, he found a spatula with a blue rubber handle. He used the spatula to slice a gold bar sized hunk out of the casserole. This should do for now, he thought, slopping the casserole onto a square plate and shoving it into the microwave. Five minutes until her tiny wrist knocks at his door. He set the microwave to four. Better to give the casserole a minute to cool. Make it just right. He smiled at his own genius.
He heard the water filling the bathtub and made his way back to the bathroom to check on his makeshift spa. If this isn’t romantic, he thought, I don’t know what is. He breached the bathroom door and looked at the candles. One had fallen to the floor but had stayed lit, leaving a small puddle of purple wax on his shaggy bathroom rug.
“No…”
He panicked and bent forward to retrieve the candle. He overshot his quick gesture and hit his forehead on the bathroom counter, whipping his hands instinctively in front of him and swiping the remaining candles onto the floor. As the candles fell, they doused his left arm, exposed by his rolled up sleeves, with hot wax. He jumped, and in mid curse, noticed the oven mitt was still on his right hand. He used the mitt to try and wipe away the wax but it had instantly dried. He took the mitt off and set it on the counter, trying his best to pick at the wax stuck in the hairs of his arm. He grabbed some toilet paper and started to scrub at the wax but quickly gave up.Rubbing his forehead in frustration, he gazed down at the waxy mess on his bathroom floor. He looked at his watch. Three minutes.
Tonight is the night, he thought, determined not to let the candles or the microwave casserole ruin his plans. He had waited exactly a year to tell her that he loved her. One year the words weighed heavy on his lips. There was no way he was going to let a pan of botched casserole and a few stupid candles stop him from saying the most powerful three words in the English language.
The bath, he thought, noticing that it wasn’t making the metallic sound of water hitting water, as it should have after filling for a few minutes. He opened the shower curtain and nearly screamed. In his hurry to catch the oven timer, he had failed to plug the drain. All the green apple sea salt had completely dissolved and escaped down the drain. Stuck in a mildew circle, he spotted a long forgotten bottle of kiwi shampoo. In a fury, he jammed the plug into the drain and emptied the bottle of shampoo into the tub. He stuck his hand in the water and mixed the shampoo in. She won’t notice, he thought, stirring his hand in the water, and if she did, at least it would smell nice. Two minutes remained before she arrived. He quickly placed the candles back onto the counter and carefully lit them.
As he reached to turn the bathroom light off, he heard a small explosion in the kitchen. The casserole. His microwave. The mess to follow. He burst into the kitchen, clipping his right foot on the pale olive trashcan that sat in front of a barrier that separated his kitchen from the front door. He barreled forward but caught himself on the kitchen counter. The trashcan fell sideways, spilling a couple empty cans of corn, onion peels, the receipt from the grocery store, an empty bottle of Heinz ketchup, and a few soggy tea bags across his floor. The ketchup bottle slid across the lacewood floor, slapped into the leg of a bar stool, and spun five times before finally giving up on its escape. Spin the bottle.
He looked slowly, dejectedly, vehemently, from the ketchup bottle, which was practically mocking him, to the microwave. The dinger on the microwave went off. The light inside turned on. The casserole had been splattered like Jackson Pollock painting inside the microwave.
“No….”
He started to pick up the cans. He stepped over the trash, looking at his watch—less than minute—and with spite for all the world’s microwaves, opened the microwave door to curse at the bloody mess. Strings of cheese hung from the ceiling of the microwave, one string held a single piece of corn like lone trapeze artist.
He reached to touch the plate and burnt his hand. “No!” he yelled.
He started to search for his oven mitt, and realized he had left it in the bathroom. As ran to the bathroom to retrieve it, he heard a knock on the door. He grabbed the oven mitt.
Don’t panic, he told himself, just take her out to dinner. No, tell her someone just robbed the house and left a mess. No, just…just…tell her you are sick! Yes! Tell her you are sick. No. She will know you are lying. He heard her knock again. He took a deep breath, steadying himself in front of the door. With the oven mitt in hand he opened the door, accepting his fate like we all must do one day.
She stood holding a pizza with a big smile across her face. Her Christmas tree pin glimmered in the light from his hallway. He could instantly smell the cheese boiling inside the cardboard pizza box.
“I thought you might be hungry…” she said, her smile turning a little as she noticed his oven mitt, the contrite look on his face and the wax stuck in the hairs of his left arm.
“I love you,” he said, sighing loudly and dropping the oven mitt.
