Bob’s Deal

I didn’t think I could go in there anymore.

Three weeks. That’s how long I’d avoided stepping foot in the kitchen. Long enough for the lingering odor of stale food and takeout to seep into other parts of the house, making it clear I couldn’t keep dodging this place.

I was tired of eating out. It wasn’t just expensive—it felt like I was sliding back into the old, isolated me.

I hovered in the doorway, hesitating. My hand gripped the frame, but I didn’t step in. It was just as we left it, a snapshot of the last meal I cooked: dirty dishes stacked in the sink, stains on the stove, the trash bag bulging, begging to be taken out.

I shouldn’t have let it get this bad. I’d left the kitchen the way I always did, expecting Bob to clean up the mess. That wasn’t going to happen this time. Not ever again. It wasn’t Bob’s kitchen anymore.

I wasn’t one to cower, but this had always been his job. He kept things tidy, orderly, after I came in and wrecked the place. For him, this space mattered. With a bittersweet smile, I muttered, “It’s not that terrible.”

Me? I hated cleaning. Always had. I didn’t even pretend otherwise. Bob and I had a deal: I cooked, and Bob—well, he handled the aftermath and made the weekly bowl of salad. It was a system that worked for us. I could create culinary chaos, and Bob would bring order, leaving the kitchen ready for the next meal and the salad prepped for quick lunches and dinners.

Growing up in a Southern, Creole, pseudo-Mexican family where food wasn’t just about eating, it meant family and culture. For me, cooking was a way to step away from my self-consuming workdays. Our kitchen wasn’t just where we made meals—it was our haven, filled with laughter, stories, and good food. For Bob, it was the whole world.

My cooking wasn’t dreadful. Compared to my aunt or sister? Sure, I was somewhere between unimpressive and okay. But for a seventy-six-year-old white man, Bob ate pretty damn good.

We didn’t do bland. I knew how to make food taste right without overdoing the salt. Bob loved flavor—spicy, buttery, heavy on the meat and potatoes—all the stuff that didn’t love him back. I didn’t let him have everything he wanted. I had to watch his diet. But I was creative, so he didn’t miss out on too much. Every now and then, I bent the rules. A little more butter. A few extra slices of bacon. His grin on those nights made it worth it.

Bob was my best friend. He was like Woody in Toy Story—always there, always loyal. I never imagined, actually no one imagined, that I’d end up with a roommate like him.

At first, we were just neighbors. Our garage doors butted heads, so we saw each other coming and going. He lived with some friends back then, but he always seemed a little alone.

I’d turned part of my garage into an art studio. Friday nights were girls’ night—dinner and painting. Bob wandered over one evening and asked if he could join. The girls loved him. He became a regular. After that, I let him paint during the day. I worked nearby and would come home for lunch, often making him something to eat.

He started staying for dinner, helping clean up after I cooked. I guess that’s where the deal started. Bob wasn’t happy where he lived, and more and more, I found him in my garage. One day he asked if he could move in.

I said, “Oh no!” but in my mind, I screamed, “HELL NO!” I was happy living alone. Living with a man—let alone an old one—was not in my future. I didn’t want to see Bob in his underwear ever. I wasn’t housewife material or a caregiver.

But over time, I saw he needed me—someone to notice if he ate, if he took his meds. And I needed him too. I often worked eighteen-hour days, but Bob helped me break free from my workaholic spiral and actually live.

When my lease ended, I found a rental house with a big garage and, reluctantly, agreed to be roommates. For years, it worked. Our system—me cooking, Bob cleaning, salad always ready—carried us. And in between, we had the art studio.

He was happy. Until the small changes crept in. His legs grew weaker. Standing at the sink became a balancing act. He’d grip the counter like his life depended on it, struggling to load the dishwasher. After he almost fell wiping down the stove, I convinced him to get a walker.

We picked out a red one with wheels and a little bench. It gave him freedom to sit at the island while I cooked. He became my sous chef again—chopping vegetables, making the salad. Even so, time wore him down. He looked tired. Sluggish.

I’d offer to clean up myself. “Don’t worry, we can do it tomorrow.”

Bob would just smile, roll his walker to the sink, and say, “If we wait, it’ll be harder later.”

It wasn’t about the mess. It was about keeping his end of the deal—and his dignity.

I sighed. It was time to step up. To tackle what was stopping me from making dinner, from moving on. Trying not to cry—or inhale too deeply—I stepped in.

I went for the trash first, tied up the bag, and hauled it out. A fresh one went in its place. Then I worked like Bob would have: dishwasher loaded, counters cleared, stove wiped, cutting table scrubbed.

Cleaning sucked, sure. But the hard part was knowing my cooking buddy and best friend was gone.

The kitchen was fairly straightened. It looked better now. Not perfect—not Bob’s clean—but enough.

I started pulling out ingredients from the fridge with unshed tears and a twinge of guilt. My hand hesitated on the pre-bagged salad. It felt like a shortcut, a betrayal of the care we used to put into our meals. Bob wouldn’t have approved.

I wanted to rationalize it—It’s just me. It’s faster. I probably couldn’t even find the peeler if I tried. But the thought of chopping vegetables alone felt daunting.

I tore open the bag and dumped the limp greens into a bowl. They stared back at me, lifeless, a poor substitute for the salads we used to make together.

This wasn’t Bob’s salad.

Sighing, I tossed the bagged salad in the trash. I went back to the fridge and pulled out the romaine and iceberg. Bob and I never bought that pre-washed stuff. “Tastes like plastic,” he’d say. And he wasn’t wrong.

Setting the lettuces side by side on the cutting board. Two kinds, like always. My hands worked clumsily, tearing leaves, chopping stems. The pieces were too big, but Bob wouldn’t have cared. He would’ve been sitting on his little bench at the counter, watching like he was at the theater.

Tomatoes next. I grabbed one, sliced too fast, and the knife slipped—sending the tomato squishing onto the floor. In my head, I could see Bob lurch forward from his seat, trying to catch it. His hands would’ve fumbled as much as mine, and he’d laugh when it slipped through his fingers.

“It should still be good, you think?” he’d ask, hopeful.

“No, Bob. Just grab a new one.” I would’ve said, shaking my head with a smile.

Back then, we’d keep going together. Me chopping, him handing me things from his spot at the counter, content just to be included.

Cucumbers. Carrots. I reached for the peeler. Not in the drawer. Not in the next one either. Typical Bob. His idea of “putting things back” was wherever his hands could reach. Three drawers later, I found it under the tongs.

Slice. Dice. Drop into the bowl. The cuts weren’t neat, but they didn’t need to be. Bob would’ve said it was perfect anyway.

When the salad was done, I set a pan on the stove and sautéed chicken with onions and mushrooms. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, wrapping around me like a memory.

This was more than a meal. It was a tribute to the deal he and I made—keeping him alive in this space, continuing our shared stories in the kitchen.

When the food was ready, I plated it.

One plate.

One bowl of salad.

I set them on the table, the same as always.

Except this time, there was only me.