“Above The Surf, On Turf/Naima”

The chef’s kitchen eventually came to include a chef’s quarters, as Gerald lost his love for cooking, but not eating; and it wasn’t the most horrible thing in the world, listening to “Naima”, and working on the fifth chapter of his fifth book, for the fifth time. He’d scored a vintage bottle of spirits from a Sotheby auction; one that he and Jennifer meant to crack open on several different occasions. But this time alone was the perfect opportunity; a celebration of sorts.

Surf and turf was always his favorite meal, even as a child whose mother would have never thought to spoil him so; besides, she couldn’t, and the why wasn’t missed on him. Gerald chuckled, thinking about how he would pluck his mother’s nerves, asking something totally preposterous; not for the right answer, but the reaction. He swirled the vintage, 1969, a deep, eyes-closed waft, taking the double shot like some un-cultured schmuck. His eyes watered. He began to type as he called the chef, who appeared with dessert and a rolling tray.

Gerald, putting his right hand into the air, quickly swiping left with his index finger, sat back, closing his eyes.

Naima.