Portions of Love

As every Sunday went, Preeti stood barefoot on the warm hardwood floors of their kitchen, her toes sinking into the vivid runner she had carried back from Rajasthan - deep indigo and white block prints, soft from years underfoot. The kitchen itself was a blend of two worlds: sleek American cabinetry and modern pendant lights alongside a beautiful brass diya from her mother’s puja shelf, a line of terracotta spice jars with little hand-painted elephants, and a Pichwai painting framed between photos of their Boston trips.

Now the kitchen was alive with aromas: onions caramelizing to gold, mustard seeds popping sharply in ghee, Kashmiri chili powder blooming into a warm, smoky depth. The air seemed to gather around her, thick and fragrant, wrapping her shoulders like an old dupatta.

Outside the window, the neighbor’s children chased each other with neon water guns. Inside, Preeti had arranged her Sunday altar: those beloved stainless steel boxes lined neatly along the counter, lids off, each patiently waiting to hold her delicious dishes. The chicken was marinating in yogurt and fresh ginger-garlic paste, waiting its turn. Tomatoes simmered low and patient, growing darker and richer with every slow stir.

On any other Sunday, Julian would lean against the doorway, arms folded, and watch her with a soft, tired affection. He didn’t understand her obsession with meal prepping. He thought Sundays should be for sleeping in, spontaneous brunches, or drives with no destination. Why lock yourself into little boxes of food when half the joy was deciding in the moment? But Preeti found comfort in preparedness. She believed in catching life’s unpredictable days with careful hands.

Today, though, everything felt on the edge. Last night they had argued. It wasn’t the usual playful teasing or gentle sparring. A real fight. The ugly kind. Julian’s family had been pulling him home, three states away. His sister had just had a baby, his mother’s voice on the phone wobbled with hope. Julian longed to be there, to watch his nephew grow, to slide into those noisy dinners. But Preeti had just settled into a new job, only six months in, after years of short contracts and feeling adrift. The idea of uprooting so soon made her breath catch in her chest.

Words were thrown. Words about selfishness, about never compromising, about always choosing career or family, depending on who was shouting. They had slept in separate rooms, the silence stretched tight between them by this morning.

Now Julian stood there, unsure whether to break it. He almost joked about how her freezer stock could feed a small army, how if they ever had kids she would probably label their lunchboxes a month ahead. But her face stayed guarded. The joke died on his tongue. When Preeti was done, she sealed the last container, wiped each lid clean with ritual care, and lined them in the freezer. Then she paused, hands gripping the counter. Her eyes shut for a breath. Without a word, she quickly walked into the mudroom, slid into her sandals, grabbed her keys, and left.

The duck pond in Ridgewood had always been hers, long before Julian, even. She liked how the water caught the sun in tiny diamonds, how the reeds nodded and whispered. Ducks moved lazily across the surface, leaving rippled signatures. Preeti took off her sandals and let the grass cool her feet. She thought of Julian’s family: a cozy house where laughter spilled into hallways, his mother’s delicious tomato quiche, the baby’s gummy smile. She also thought of her office: the little succulent on her desk, her boss’s easy praise, the simple pride of belonging. Everything tangled together inside her chest - love, guilt, longing, the pain of choosing.

Her phone buzzed, battery low. She slipped it back into her bag. She would call him later. Maybe by evening they would find each other in the kitchen, bump hips near the fridge, offer hesitant apologies that would melt into kisses.

But life did not always follow plans.

Later that afternoon, Julian’s phone lit up with an unfamiliar number. He nearly let it go, thumb hovering over the screen. Something nudged him to answer. The calm voice on the other end belonged to Officer Ramirez with the Ridgewood Police Department. There was a measured weight to each word, like he had said them too many times before. There had been an accident near the duck pond. A truck that failed to stop at the intersection had blindsided Preeti’s sedan. Could Julian come to Valley Hospital as soon as possible?

Julian’s breath stuttered. The phone slipped slightly in his grip, the officer’s voice buzzing on as if from underwater. He barely managed to say that he was on his way.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and floor polish. Machines hummed low, nurses moved with urgent grace. Julian sat by Preeti’s bed, her skin still warm under his palm. Her face looked peaceful, almost sleeping. He whispered to her, nonsense things, inside jokes from their first dates, pleas laced with tears. When the monitor finally fell silent, he pressed his forehead to hers, desperate to hold one more shared breath.

After the funeral, the apartment felt hollow. Her hair ties lay scattered across the bathroom counter, her jhumkas gathered dust on the dresser. The freezer hummed steadily in the background, a small mechanical heart still beating.

Days later, unable to sleep, Julian wandered into the kitchen. Out of habit, he opened the freezer and there it was. Six neat containers of Preeti’s butter chicken, each labeled in her looping script. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

His throat closed up. He sank into the cold tile, clutching a container to his chest, tears spilling hot and unchecked. Then, hands trembling, he pulled a pot from the cupboard. He thawed the curry on low, just as she always did. As it warmed, the kitchen filled again with her: coriander, cumin, the tender sweetness of cooked tomatoes cut by the faint bitterness of dried fenugreek. He stirred carefully, almost reverently.

The first bite was pain and comfort all at once. The chicken carried its smoky char, the sauce wrapped around his tongue, creamy and vibrant, with just enough heat to bloom at the back of his throat. For a second, he could almost see her there, nudging his hip, tasting from the wooden spoon.

Night after night, he returned. Sometimes standing by the stove, sometimes at the little table they had picked out together from a dusty antique shop in town. Each bite was a tiny prayer, a fragile way to keep her close, to fill the hollow spaces with something other than loss. When he reached the last container, he treated it like a relic, letting it thaw slowly overnight, warming it on the gentlest flame. He closed his eyes, savoring each mouthful. When it was gone, he ran his finger through the leftover sauce in the pot, licking it clean, tasting every last whisper of her.

Then he sat there in the dim kitchen, whispering her name into the soft hum of the refrigerator. For a fleeting moment, he swore he felt her near, her laugh in the clink of dishes, her hand smoothing the hair from his brow. Love, Julian realized, didn’t vanish with the body. It lingered in meals crafted by her careful hands, in freezer labels written with her quiet affection, in spices that unfurled like tiny sunbursts on the tongue. It stayed long after meal-prep Sunday was over.

For Julian, it lived on in every tender bite of butter chicken that would forever taste like home. And like Preeti.