Angels and Humans | Ep03 | Sauce

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She watched him walk to the fridge.

He opened the door and squinted as the light hit his face. He was handsome, with a strong jaw but his eyes were tired and sunken. He stared blankly for a few moments and then shut the door again without removing anything. Most was rotting away in there anyway.

He wasn't hungry but knew he should eat as he couldn't remember the last time he had. He went to the walk in pantry and took a can from a shelf, a can of tuna. "Food's food", he muttered. Taking a fork from the drawer, he cracked the tin and peeled back the lid. The strong smell made him feel a little nauseous.

Sitting at the kitchen island he plashed some red wine into an already used glass and watched as it dripped down the side to remoisten the ring that had dried at it's base from the last glass. The one he had in the morning before falling asleep on the couch.

He picked up the glass and from habit swirled it with a flick of the wrist and watched as it settled. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in again as he took a gulp and downed it. It was turning. A 600 dollar bottle of wine shouldn't be left on the table overnight. He didn't care much though.

He looked down at the can fork in hand and he felt his nose curl in displeasure yet sank the fork in and shovelled a chunk past his lips. It stuck dryly to the roof of his mouth and made an unpleasant sucking sound as he chewed. He dropped the can roughly on to the table where it clattered slightly and cam to rest next to another identical can, also half eaten. He closed his eyes and slumped into the stool.

She moved to stand opposite him. "Look".

His eyes opened and rested on a bookshelf filled with cooking books. There was one shelf though that was only half filled and had a bookend pressed to hold them straight. In the space that was left on the shelf there was a fork. A single, worn, conspicuously plain fork. His jaw tightened as he could feel the tears well in his eyes. He blinked them away and turned his attention back to his glass.

Pouring another, he again swirled and polished it off, not even giving it time for the aroma to flood the nostrils and wincing at the slightly higher acidity. He poured the last into the glass but sat it down on the table.

Sighing, lifted his head and surveyed the room. It was disgusting. He knew she would never let it get like this. He could smell the filth, the stagnant air that seemed to hang at nose level. Minimalistic opulence plagued by a mind and body too broken to care.

She didn't deserve to live like this, tied to a man singular in mind, driven by one thing only and now she was gone and it seems that his passion was pulled kicking and screaming through the door behind her. All that was left was a void of where she had stood, the place in his heart. He bowed his head. Ashamed.

She touched his shoulder

He let out a sigh and took another look around at what had become of a perfect life. A life of money and success, a life that travelled the world, met royalty, graced the covers of magazines. A life where career and personal was balanced on a razor sharp edge. His life in the kitchen, perfectly counter-weighted by her life. He cooked, but she had the taste. It wasn't a life, it was their life and at this moment, the rest is meaningless.

He had free fallen from the blade and had spiralled down to hit the polished concrete floor. There was nowhere left to go and he wasn't going to find an answer in expensive wine or in can of shitty tuna.

This is not the end. He is not going to lose her again every time he picks up an apron, every time he sharpens a knife, every time he sits down to a meal without her there. It had been a month. She would be horrified by his inactivity. She even said so as he held her hand as she closed her eyes.

She held his hand and said, "One last meal, please. I love it when you cook for me". It was because of this he hadn't cooked since. One month out of a kitchen for the first time since he was a teenager and never in as long as she had known him. He leaned his head against the window and looked into the darkness and until he looked into the room.

She led his gaze as he slowly scanned the space

First things first, clean. I cannot cook in this shithole. He rubbed his eyes, rolled his shoulders to loosen his neck and got to work. Firstly picking up all of the loose items and lastly scrubbing the kitchen until it was back to what it should be, spotless, ready for creativity.

He showered and threw on a fresh pair of track pants and a loose fitting T-shirt. For the first time since that day, he felt like he could breathe. Heading out into the kitchen he stood there, the cool concrete on his bare feet and closed his eyes. A last meal fit for his queen, and he hadn't shopped in a month. Damn.

She smiled and sighed

He smiled and laughed. "Sara, you know what it will be don't you?"

He walked into the pantry again but instead of a can of tuna, he emerged with a bottle. A plain bottle with a metal lid and no label. He didn't need a label for this, he knew exactly what would always be in it. The same recipe his grandma had taught him as a child, the one he tweaked and nudged to improve until it was perfect. The last meal, would be the first.

The meal he first made for Sara the first date she visited his home. He spent all day preparing his dish, making the sauce from scratch, simmering down the tomatoes, measuring out the garlic and basil and dropping a pinch of sugar to take away a little of acidity of the tomatoes. Hand-making the pasta, the same way he had done since a child, slicing it into quarter inch strips and letting it hang over a wooden rail he had constructed so it wouldn't stick before cooking.

She had arrived on time, to the minute and he had welcomed her into his tiny, rundown apartment where they would spend the next two years of their life while he finished training, and she finished studying. He was so nervous, so wanting it to be perfect he had over looked one vital thing.

She was the first person to come into his place and he was used to eating alone or at the restaurant he had forgotten. He had only dishes for one. He sat her at the tiny table in the living room slash bedroom and placed the bowl with a glass of the best wine he could afford. It wasn't good, but wasn't bad. Next to the bowl, he placed the only fork he owned and sat opposite her.

Without even a questioning look, she took the fork, swivelled a few strands of pasta around it and placed it into her mouth as she closed her eyes. She chewed slowly and deliberately and took in the aroma, the textures, and each ingredient one by one. It was here he fell in love.

When she opened her eyes they sparkled and they never broke with his as she again curled a few strands onto the fork and she leaned forward, and offered it to him.

She turned towards the door

He stood staring at the steaming bowl before him, the wine glass to it's right. He knew then that he was alone, she would never again taste his cooking, there would be no more last meal for her. He also knew that from that date and for every meal he will ever make, she will always be a part of it. That because of what they shared in life, she would always be the main ingredient.

Taraz
[ a Steemit original ]

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