Chapter 18: The picker of lost things

 Augustine: Song weaver, self-proclaimed Life Skiller. Likes to jog in the morning. 

Ah, there is nothing like jogging on a Sunday. Everyone is asleep, the cars are still not on their mad dash to get from one place to another. The road is mine, and mine alone. I smile, but then I see something strange. There is a man, about my age, laying on a bench. 

He'll catch a cold out here. 

I stop jogging, so my running won't startle him. He seems asleep. I want to wake him up as gently as possible. I go to him, and gently touch his shoulder. His eyes snap open in an instant. He is blonde, although his hair is a dirty-blonde shade, and not like my nearly orange hue. But his eyes. 

Like milk chocolate. 

No one with eyes like this can say no to a hand offered in friendship!

"Hello, my name is Augustine. F ranked Song weaver, and a member of a party...which still doesn't have a name, but..." I am at a loss for words. He is just staring at me. I clear my throat, and offer my hand to him. "And you are?"

"Allan," he says, and shakes my hand. "I, uhm, there is nothing much to me." 

"Oh, I doubt that," I say, and pat his legs, so he can make some space for me on the bench. "You are in good shape." 

He blushes at that, and rubs the back of his head. 

"My boss at my last job made us all keep in good shape," he says, and then looks ready to bite his tongue. I nod. 

"So, what is your job like? I cook in my spare time, and negotiate with dungeon cores as my official job," I tell him, scrunching up my nose at the last part. If it was up to me, then I would have made the members of my harem go out to quests, only when there were exotic ingredients to be collected. I sigh heavily. 

"I'd rather not talk about that job. The good thing is, that it is over," he says. I blink at that. 

"So, are you searching for a new job?" I ask him. He nods. 

"I can use a helper in the kitchen. Can you cook?" I ask him, and then touch the truth pendant that is now constantly around my neck. I won't be duped again! 

"I can do preparation things, and some simple stuff," he says. 

"You won't mind me testing you, will you?" I ask him. Just because the pendant didn't activate, it doesn't mean that he is that good of a cook. He might be average, and good only for peeling potatoes. Still, I want to see him more often. There is this softness about him, that just makes you wish to have him in your life. 

"I have no problem with that," he smiles at me, stands up from the bench, and stretches. He must often swim because his legs are very toned. So are his arms. And his fingers, they look like they were made for kneading dough. 

He is perfection. 

Calm down, Tine. Don't scare him off — now. You can have everyone in your harem, but what good that would be, if you can't share your kitchen with anyone? 

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"Come on, I live nearby," I say, and then begin to jog towards my house. Well, my parent's house, but still. I do pay rent. 

When we make it to the kitchen, mom and dad are having their coffee by the kitchen counter. Before the coffee, they both behave like zombies. There was this time once, when I said brains while they were sipping their coffee. I ended up in a costume of a zombie, for Samhain. It was worth it, though. 

"Tine, who is your friend?" My mother asks. I still haven't forgiven her for the talk. Still, I am a good sport, so I make a waving motion, to show Allan off. 

"Allan, a kitchen helper. I will be testing him today," I say. My mother groans. 

"You have a party, Tine. You can't just use this poor boy as an excuse to stick yourself in the kitchen," I am ready to argue, but my father beats me to the punch. 

"Margie, it is ok. I mean, if he wants to hire people, then he is serious about this whole cooking thing. Maybe he will be the first Cooking Hero?" My father asks. My mother just glares at him. 

"Me, the mother of the first Cooking Hero? Honestly, Thomas!" They begin to bicker, and I take Allan by the hand, and bring him to the table. 

"Ok, we can start off with something simple. Let us make some pancakes," I say. My parents stop their bickering for a while, when they hear the magic word. 

"Say whatever it is you want, Margie. But how many mothers can say that their sons made them pancakes on a bright Sunday morning?" My dad asks, as he reaches out, and rests a hand over mom's. 

"They can't say that, but they can say that their sons and daughters slew dragons. You don't know how Matilda from Ash Street boosts about Robert," mom says. I just shrug. 

"Well, do you know the recipe?" I ask Allan. He nods, and then tells me the universal pancake recipe. I smile, and point at the cupboards. "Ok, everything is in there. If you can't find anything, just ask me." 

Allan can flip a pancake like it is nothing. Not that I tear out the pancakes from the pan, but he can flip them without easing them off the pan, first. When he piles up the pancakes on a platter, I take a good look at him. He has a bite mark on his neck. It looks like a hickey. That disappoints me, a little. 

Oh, well, my harem won't be growing. 

I invite him to sit down, and eat with us. The whole family, plus Allan, has maple syrup for the pancake, enough butter for people to ask themselves why we even bothered putting butter in the pancakes themselves, and warm milk with honey. He eats with a gusto. When he cleans his plate, he stares at the rest of the pancakes with longing. 

I take the spatulas, and scoop up about five more pancakes. Then, I dump them in his plate. 

"This all has to be eaten. Don't be shy about taking seconds, or thirds," he looks into my eyes for a while, then gives me a sort of bittersweet smile. That smile makes my heart skip a beat. From the corner of my eye, I see my father sending knowing looks at my mother, who sighs. 

I want him. 

I can't have him. 

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