Tom

Tom strolled leisurely through the living room. The view from the windows always made him proud of his success in business. Sure, he'd have liked to have a more creative side to his daily life, but business was brisk and his endeavors, even in dire times such as this pandemic, always turned out profitable. He wished he could truly say he'd made it, but he was convinced that as long as his name wasn't know to every American household, he could not. He came from an underprivileged borough in a country that glorified white men's success as "effort" and black men's success as "luck". At best. He felt he needed to be better than anyone, to be more successful than anyone.

Besides, he was gay in a country that elected a white-haired white-skinned Vice President convinced "gayness" could be "cured". He wanted to be so successful everyone envied his couple.

He counted himself lucky, though, and felt God had shined a ray on him. He spent time during weekend tutoring kids from the Church he used to go to, though he barely went now. It was one of the rare activities he allowed himself that wasn't designed to make money. That, and cooking.

He'd always loved cooking. Maybe, in a different life, he could have been a famous chef, maybe even one with a TV show? Wait. All of these were white people, weren't they? Maybe, maybe not. He wasn't going to dwell on it when there was money to be made, or butternut to be baked in his European-made oven, a magnificent, deep-blue LaCornue.

Spending the evening alone?

1- Tom cooks for himself

2- Tom cooks to impress, tonight.