Your Fictional Type vs. the Person You Actually Want at Your Kitchen Counter
Your Fictional Typeversusthe Person You Actually Want
at Your Kitchen Counter
The chemistry can stay. So can the man who helps with dinner.
My fictional type probably has a reputation, a complicated relationship with authority, and a home with an unreasonable number of locked rooms.
He is dangerously devoted. Unnecessarily powerful. Very good at appearing in doorways.
There may be a throne. There are almost certainly crimes.
I will happily read four hundred pages about him making increasingly questionable decisions because he has finally met the one woman he cannot stop thinking about.
But when I picture the person I actually want at my kitchen counter, the scene gets a little different.
He’s making me laugh while I’m trying to remember what goes into the sauce. Telling me something ridiculous that happened during his day. Reaching for a cutting board because there are vegetables to chop and he lives here, too.
I walk past him, and his hand finds my waist.
That part can absolutely stay.
The appeal is very easy to explain
There is something delicious about being wanted with the kind of certainty fictional men seem to possess.
They may be confused about their loyalties, their inheritance, or whether they should declare war before breakfast. Their attraction, however, is remarkably clear.
You rarely have to wonder whether the man on page 237 is interested.
He has crossed a kingdom. He has ruined a perfectly good plan. He has said something so outrageous you need to put the book down and look around your empty bedroom.
The extravagance is part of the pleasure. A story can give longing an enormous stage: impossible stakes, unbearable restraint, the moment someone finally reaches for what they want.
I understand the appeal of being the person who makes a very composed man lose his train of thought.
I would also like him to answer a straightforward question without requiring a sequel.
Meet me in the kitchen
The kitchen is where my real-life romantic imagination keeps going.
There is something intimate about having someone there while dinner is still becoming dinner. Before the candles, before the food is arranged, while a drawer is open and I’m looking for the thing I just had in my hand.
It’s an ordinary room where you get to see how someone shares space with you.
Can we talk easily? Can we be quiet easily? Does he notice that I’m doing three things at once? Can I ask him to turn the heat down without the evening becoming a referendum on his character?
And does he still look at me in a way that makes me forget what I was asking?
Because yes, I want that, too.
I want the glance across the counter. The familiar joke delivered close enough to my ear. A kiss that makes dinner take a little longer.
I want someone whose company makes me glad we decided to stay home.
I still want to lose my train of thought
Sometimes conversations about choosing a good partner make the whole thing sound terribly administrative.
Reliable. Available. Sensible footwear.
All lovely qualities. But I would like to be kissed against the counter at least occasionally.
Wanting a relationship that feels good to live inside doesn’t mean giving up desire. There is plenty of room for tenderness and a very distracting mouth.
For the person who remembers how I take my coffee and knows exactly what he’s doing when he stands behind me.
For laughing halfway through a kiss because something in the oven has started making a concerning noise.
There is a particular pleasure in wanting someone you can relax with. You can reach for him without calculating whether you’ve been too affectionate. You can tell him what you like. You can have an awkward moment and trust that the two of you will find your way through it.
That gives desire somewhere to go after the first spectacular evening.
It gives it a Tuesday.
What happens after the grand gesture?
Books are very good at the moment someone chooses you.
I’m interested in the mornings and evenings that follow.
When one of us has had a difficult day. When the plans change. When I say something badly and need another try. When he needs attention and I’m distracted.
I want us to be able to tell each other the truth without turning every conversation into a contest someone has to win.
I want apologies that lead somewhere. Affection that doesn’t disappear because we’ve disagreed. Enough curiosity to remember that there is still a whole person across the counter, even when we think we know what he’s about to say.
None of this requires perfection.
It does require both people to participate.
A man who can say, “I see why that upset you,” has my attention.
If he can say it, mean it, and then help clean the kitchen, I may need a moment.
An ordinary evening, with you
The more I picture it, the more appealing the ordinary scene becomes.
Music playing. Something warm on the stove. A person I’m happy to see coming through the door.
He tastes the sauce. Offers an opinion I may or may not accept. Steals something off the cutting board and gets his hand swatted.
We talk about the weekend. Someone we love. Something we’re looking forward to. Whether we have the energy to go out tomorrow.
There is room to be funny, tired, affectionate, distracted. Room for a life that includes bills and laundry alongside the very good possibility of taking each other’s clothes off later.
I want to look at him across that kitchen and feel both things: how much I want him, and how glad I am that he’s here.
That is a scene I could return to.
Keep the throne. Come taste this.
My reading taste can remain gloriously questionable.
I will continue enjoying the dangerous man with the impossible house and the dialogue that would be deeply inconvenient to hear in public.
But the person I want beside me when I close the book has a place in an actual life.
He makes me laugh. He listens. He has things to tell me. We can ask things of each other. There is attraction, affection, and enough ease to enjoy being in the same room without needing an occasion.
And when I say, “Come here,” while I’m standing at the stove, I want him to know he’s being invited into something good.
Possibly dinner.
Possibly a kiss.
He should probably come find out.