Spaghetti Bolognese

Biting the bullet, I quickly press ‘Send’ then throw my phone onto my bed, turn my back and head to the kitchen to make supper. There’s no going back now, I’ve asked her. I don’t want to keep checking my phone for a reply, it’ll drive me mad, and I’m not sure I’ll want to read the reply. Out of sight? Check. Out of mind? I’ll try...

Cooking, previously a hobby of mine, has become a chore without her. Every meal was a chance to bring her joy. Usually that joy would come in the form of roaring laughter at the crazy, half burnt, salty and overly spicy meal I’d concocted and we’d end up ordering pizza, I never said I was good at my hobby. She preferred simple comfort food like fried chicken, gumbo and good hearty soups and casseroles. Nothing fancy, but made with love. As I pour the crushed tomatoes into the sizzling pot I realise I’m making her favourite, spaghetti bolognese. 

It looks as if I’m cooking for a family of 6, but over the years I’ve learnt that cooking for one involves a hell of a lot of leftovers. This would be my work lunches for the week ahead if I had a proper job, I don’t get lunch or dinner breaks working at the bar. Instead this just means I don’t have to cook for the rest of the week which gives me more time to, well, do nothing mostly.

While the pasta is cooking and the sauce simmering away I have time for a quick smoke. She hated the fact that I smoke, it wasn’t the smell or the money I spend on the cursed death sticks, she couldn’t understand how I could damage my health 20 times a day knowing that when they finally killed me, I’d be leaving her behind, all for a quick hit. I could never answer that question. Sure it’s an addiction, but I could have made the decision to tackle it. Watching the smoke dance up to the darkening sky I stub out the half smoked cigarette, half-heartedly declaring that it was my last.

On the way back to the kitchen I struggle to stop myself from going to get my phone. It’s only been an hour and I need to stop thinking about her so I take a deep breath, and try to think about all of the other things I could be thinking about, which actually works, for a short while. Apparently it’s called ‘grounding’, where you take notice of all the little things around you like the sounds, the smells and what you can see to clear away intrusive thoughts. I was skeptical at first but it usually works, however when you’ve counted the kitchen wall tiles more times than there are tiles it loses its effect. 84 by the way. I manage to plate up my food and get comfortable on the sofa without her, or the message, entering my mind. 

No point in putting the TV on, there’ll be nothing on and anything I watch will probably remind me of her anyway. I would usually be scrolling or watching something on my phone, but I’m not going to get it so I sit in silence, save for the soft yet jarring clink of the cutlery against the bowl. Twirling the pasta onto the fork I notice the cramp-like twinge in my gut. I’m always amazed at how much thoughts and feelings manifest themselves physically. Defeated, I put the barely touched bowl of pasta into the fridge with the rest of the leftovers. My hand hovers in front of a can of beer, it won’t make it any better so I leave it. 

Feeling completely drained I notice the time. 8 o’clock. Too early to go to bed? Yes. I know I’m getting old but really, 8? I catch myself. Going to bed means looking at my phone! Good try, me.  Instead I go back to the kitchen and clean up the mess I was going to leave until the morning. 

Whilst drying the last plate I realise I haven’t thought about her, my phone, or anything else for a whole half hour. Feeling liberated, I don’t stop. I meticulously scrub, wipe and organise every single cupboard, drawer, surface and all 84 tiles in my kitchen. I stand back to admire my handiwork, it wasn’t even this clean when I moved in. There’s an unfamiliar sense of pride and a hesitant smile creeps across my face. So I don’t stop. Next thing I know I’m dusting the blinds, polishing the coffee table, mopping the floor, descaling the shower and by midnight I’ve done the whole house. The smile returns, more confident this time. Giggling as she hides her delight, she would probably make some sarcastic comment about how she didn’t know I even owned a duster, and there we go. With that the smile fades and my good friends, dread, anxiety and hopelessness come rushing back. The contentment and distraction were a temporary haven, like all good things. 

At last I tumble into bed and grab my phone, wincing as I go to unlock it. It’s off. I didn’t turn it off, did I? Unless the battery died. Why would the battery just die? She must have been calling and texting me constantly, describing in detail every single reason why the answer is a definite no, never, not after everything I did. 

I sit upright defensively, as if she’s stood on the other side of the room, I open my mouth to argue back but it’s pointless. I didn’t do anything, but that’s the point, nothing worthwhile anyway. I didn’t try. I didn’t put her first. She fit into my life as and when I wanted her to, she needed so much more from me and I didn’t support her. Reminded of that initial heartbreak, as fresh and sore as the day she shut me out, I accept it. She has every right to say no and I wouldn’t blame her. I plug in my phone and await the inevitable.

Nothing yet, it can take a while to load up. I jump when a notification pops up, “Power save mode switched off your phone to save battery. You can change this in your sett...”, I forgot about that. A few minutes pass and nothing. She hasn’t been calling and texting, and she hasn’t replied. I haven’t offended or angered her, it’s worse. I’ve made her feel uncomfortable. I know it took a lot for her to get back in touch with me. She didn’t like how we left things so she decided to give me another chance, I don’t deserve her kindness. Hearing her voice on our weekly phone calls have started to bring joy back into my life. I’ve been going at her pace, she’s been in control and we’ve been slowly getting to know each other again 8 years on. I shouldn’t have asked her so soon. At least not via text. It’s been going so well the last few weeks and I’ve just ruined any chance I had of seeing her again and broken her trust, with one simple text. “Would you like to meet up sometime?” 

Harsh noon sunlight beams through the curtains but I don’t open my eyes. I don’t remember falling asleep and I don’t particularly want to wake up. Then I remember last night, a painful pang of guilt rushes over me. I don’t deserve to sleep through this pain. I need to live it, and learn from it. 

After managing to pry myself out of bed and into the shower I remember something else from last night. I cleaned the house from top to bottom. She would have been so impressed. Instead of trying to take my mind off her, this time I do think about her, about how I never cared enough to clean before she came over. Now I get to sit in my nice clean house alone. 

On the way to the kitchen I pass the packet of cigarettes on the table. I’ve never needed one more than I do now, all the more reason not to have one, I don’t deserve even the momentary relief it would give me. 

I open the fridge to peruse my lunch options which are 6 individual portions of spaghetti bolognese. Putting the one I attempted last night into the microwave I think of all the times I would cook this for her, thinking it would put everything right when in reality that would just prove how little I knew about her. I think of all the things I should have done whilst reluctantly eating my meal, so engrossed in thought I barely register the buzz of my phone in my pocket. I wince as I unlock it, it’s probably my boss, the only person who ever messages me. Instead, the smile is back, this time it’s brought along a tear to my eye.

“Hey, sorry I didn’t reply, I was out with Greg for date night. I would really like to see you, could we do dinner next week? I’ve missed my ol’ Dad’s cooking, you remember my favourite don’t you?”