Prepping for Emily

The next day is Emily’s. Every second, every minute detail, every decision I make today bends around the gravity of her coming home. It's like the universe is holding its breath, waiting for this moment. I wake up way before the alarm, my heart already racing like a cheetah. I pour myself a strong black coffee, stand at the window, and watch the world wake up like I’m waiting for a storm. But it’s not nerves. It’s something deeper, something reverential. Today isn’t about monster hunting or industry dreams or action skill chaos. Today’s all about her. My Emily. And everything she deserves.

First order of business: "Baby". The Impala rests in the garage like a sleeping beast, her metal dark and glistening from the detailing I gave her yesterday. I take the soft tarp and drape it over her freshly washed body, slowly, reverently—fingertips brushing the smooth surface like I’m tucking in an old warhorse ready for its next adventure. A single chrome edge gleams beneath the cover like a secret waiting to be shared. She’s not ready to meet Emily just yet. That reveal is going to be something special, a moment I’ve been planning for days.

After that, it’s full-on cleanse mode. I blast music through the soundbar and tear into the apartment like it owes me money. Floors are scrubbed till they shine, every surface wiped twice, laundry folded like I live in a catalog. I flip the cushions, burn incense, take out the trash I don’t remember making. I even vacuum the goddamn air vents to make sure every inch of the place is pristine. I light "her" candle — sandalwood and fig — because she says it smells like summer nights and sex dreams. I just think it smells like her skin on my pillow the morning after.

Then, I hit the barber. Same guy I’ve seen since college—Sal. He doesn’t ask questions. He just throws the hot towel on my face and sharpens the blade. I close my eyes, feeling it glide across my skin with surgeon precision, like he’s shaving off everything but the version of me she sees. I leave with a jawline I could cut glass on and a fade that screams “I clean up real nice, baby.”

Back home, I take another shower. Not quick, not perfunctory. I indulge in it. Let the water run hot and steam up the mirror while I lather, rinse, scrub—everything from my toes to behind my ears. I run product through my damp hair and throw on the outfit she always loves: a black henley stretched across my chest and shoulders, sleeves pushed to the forearms where she likes to wrap her fingers. Dark jeans — tight but not try-hard — and the beat-up brown boots she says make me look “dangerous in the best way.” A little of the cologne she bought me for my birthday — deep, woody, and just spicy enough to hitch her breath when I walk past her.

Then I head into the kitchen. My second creative altar. When my mind and eyes are not behind a camera, my hands are here, creating not just for sustenance.

The pasta carbonara is already in progress. I cube the guanciale — fatty, little bricks of flavor — and slide them into the cast-iron skillet, letting them sizzle and spit like they’re telling dirty secrets. I whisk together egg yolks, finely grated pecorino parmigiano, and a storm of cracked black pepper. No shortcuts. No heavy cream. Just the real deal — rich, sinful, and elegant in its simplicity.

While the pasta water comes to a rolling boil, I prep her favorite Italian chopped salad. Crisp romaine sliced into ribbons. Fresh cucumber, blood-red onions shaved paper-thin. Kalamata olives sliced longways, still oily from the jar. Fresh mozzarella, hand-torn, not that pre-cut nonsense. Strips of Black Forest ham and salami lay across the top like ribbons of temptation with bursts of red from the halved cherry tomatoes. I whip up a vinaigrette — red wine vinegar, Dijon, smashed garlic, a slow drizzle of olive oil and a dash of lemon zest and juice — and toss it all with the kind of precision you’d expect in a chemistry lab.

The carbonara sauce is thick, the color of a fucking sunset. I scoop the al dente pasta with tongs and drop it straight into it, no draining, just drag and toss, drag and toss. I mix it carefully, letting the heat from the noodles thicken the sauce, emulsify it into velvet. Every strand coated, slick with flavor, glistening like satin sheets under candlelight as the pan rolls the concoction in my hands.

Then — the doorbell rings.

It’s not just a sound. It’s a jolt straight through me. A signal. A heartbeat externalized. Everything stops as I stand there, hand on the doorknob, taking a deep breath to calm the storm inside me.

I wipe my hands on the apron, taking one last look around — place immaculate, plates warming in the oven, wine chilling. Candles lit. House smelling like citrus, wood, garlic, and lust. The kind of place you fall in love with all over again.

I walk to the door slowly. One deep breath.

And then I open it.