Page 21 of Untouchable

“Oh,” Parker says. “Okay.”

He leans awkwardly against the doorframe feeling as though he’s suddenly forgotten how to move his arms and legs like a normal human. He watches Harp rush around the kitchen, mumbling to himself under his breath, and there’s a strange, easy precision to his movements. It takes a moment for Parker to realize that what he’s seeing is a man in his element, someone completely at ease and confident with the task at hand. It looks the way doing a massage feels for Parker, and he can’t help smiling.

Parker feels like, each session, he’s being given a clue about who Harp really is, little unintelligible fragments as fragile as butterfly wings that Parker holds onto, sure that, some day, if he can collect enough of them, he’ll know Harp—whatever that means.

"Is this gonna fuck you up for the day?" Harp asks in between steps. "I mean, is there anybody you're rushing off to after this? I don't even know what goddamn time it is..."

“No, it’s fine,” Parker says. “This is the last appointment I have for the day.” He’s grateful, in a strange way, for the chance to sit down and collect his thoughts after such a harried morning. The smell of whatever Harp is cooking, though, is mouthwatering, and it’s more than a little torturous.

"Good. Well, you might as well sit in here with me," Harp says, gesturing at the window seat in the kitchen. "I can barely hear you from there and you won't get cell reception in the house so you can't play Candy Hatch or whatever."

Parker has no idea what Candy Hatch is—some weird mountain man slang, perhaps—but he does as he’s told, perching on the little window seat in the kitchen. It’s a nice spot, the sun warming him through the window, and surprisingly intimate. He knows he’s still staring at Harp, but he can’t help it. Parker has always been a truly awful cook—he manages to get food edible, but never good. What Harp’s doing is something close to magic, according to Parker.

Gunny comes up to him, nosing at his hand, and he pets her absently.

* * *

Harp rollshis sleeves to the elbows and scrubs his hands with hot water before he selects his sharpest knife and returns to the brisket. When Harp looks over, Parker is looking at him a little wide-eyed.

"I'm just gonna check this," Harp explains, "and then we can get on with the show."

Parker nods.

“What… is that?” he asks.

"Beef brisket," Harp says as he slices. "I was planning on smoking it but then I got impatient last night."

It falls apart as he begins to slice it, and he has to hold it together with one hand as he does. He should put a mitt on, but he'd rather know what it tastes like now than wait the extra few seconds and not burn his hand.

Warily, he tries a bit. The brisket is perfect. He closes his eyes. "Goddamn, I'm good."

“Wow,” Parker says, sounding genuinely impressed. “The most I can cook is like, chicken breast.”

For the first time since Parker has walked through the door, Harp remembers that he's a human being and not a massage robot. He has no less than six pounds of brisket in front of him. It would be spectacularly rude not to share, at this point.

"You eat meat, right? Like meat meat, not just chicken and fish?"

“Oh, yeah,” Parker says. “I’m not like, vegetarian or whatever. I’m just not good at cookingit.”

Harp wonders how fast he could put together a meal with sides so that he's not just offering a stranger a random plate of sliced meat. He has enough homemade caesar salad dressing and croutons left over from the day before that he could put together a meager salad and split it between two bowls.

Harp decides not to ask and just starts working.

* * *

“So,uh, how’d you learn to cook?” Parker asks. He’s curious about this man, who seems so self-reliant and so isolated—the exact opposite of how Parker lives his own life.

He’s sure the last thing Harp wants is Parker pestering him with questions, but Parker can’t help it—he’s totally fascinated, even if Harp is wielding a sharp object yet again. It seems to be a running theme in their relationship.

"I like to eat food, ergo, I know how to cook. You like to play sports, ergo, you know the rules of the game," Harp says shrugging as he chops lettuce. The leaves are crisp and bright green, and the sound of the knife against the cutting board is oddly soothing.

“Yeah, but how did you learn?” Parker insists.

"When I was growing up, they had the craziest buildings called libraries,” Harp says.

“That’s awesome,” Parker says. “I wish they had cooking classes at the library here.”

"No—I just—books. I don't know. I—cookbooks?" Harp says, struggling. He shoots Parker a strange look, and Parker blushes. “Now I just look recipes up online. You just..."

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