Full Plate

Steven was briskly walking ahead of me, gripping his two reusable bags in one firm hand. Trips to the grocery store with him were calculated. There were no impulse purchases allowed.

“Why waste money when you can focus on what you really need and have a great, savory meal?” He would repeat when my wandering eyes would fixate on things like potato chips or chocolate milk.

Steven was a great cook. His kitchen was his safe haven, each trip to the store for ingredients a pilgrimage.

I didn’t accompany him often, because I could only take so many serious conversations about fava beans under fluorescent lights. However, I decided to that Friday because he said had a hard week and would like some company.

I wasn’t one to turn away a friend in need, or a really great steak.

He loaded the bags into his backseat while I strapped into the passenger seat, turning up the radio slowly. I liked drowning out my own thoughts while driving, but Steven liked complete silence. As he drove away, I tried listing the things we did have in common.

He turned to me, one corner of his mouth upturned into the slightest grin.

“You should really take up cooking. I think it would benefit you.” He said, rounding a corner. I could hear the reusable bags softly moving against one another.

I laughed. “Oh yeah, how so? I eat three square meals a day when I can. I’m fine.”

He rolled his eyes, turning the radio off. I let out a small sigh.

“Lean Cuisine is not a proper meal. Tonight I’ll show you what you’re missing out on.” He said.

I crossed my arms. “You’ve cooked for me before, remember? It’s always great.”

Steven merged into a left-turning lane, waiting until the car was stopped completely before looking my way again.

“Tonight will be different, though. I’m trying a new technique. I think this one will win you over. You don’t mind your meat rare, do you?” He asked, brows furrowed.

I shrugged. “Eh, I’ll eat it whichever way.”

He smiled. “Perfect.”

When we pulled into his driveway, Steven hopped out of the car eagerly, grabbing the bags and almost running to the door. I had never seen him act so swiftly before, but followed right behind him into the foyer. Steven’s home was always immaculate. The hardwood floors were polished, the rugs always a crisp white color. A far cry from my apartment.

We made our way to the kitchen. Steven dropped the bags on the island and started unloading the items – first a few different spices, then the onions. My eyes drifted toward a magnet on his fridge, one adorned with the logo of the company he worked for.

“Hey, so what happened this week? You said it was stressful?” I asked, watching him rummage through the neatly packed fridge.

“Oh, yeah. My boss has been out, I think he’s sick or something. So of course that means I take on his workload.” Steven said, finally closing the fridge door. “I’ve had my plate full for a while.”

He started meticulously peeling off the plastic wrapping on the spice jars.

“Yeah, capitalism really has us by the balls, huh?” I said.

Steven laughed – a loud, hearty laugh – one that I hadn’t heard in a while.

“You could say that again.” He responded. Then he grabbed a bottle of wine from a rack next to the sink. “Would you like a glass?”

I shrugged. “Why not. It’s Friday.”

Steven smiled, pouring what seemed like more than enough into a large wine glass.

Watching Steven cook was like watching a conductor guide an orchestra. No smell was out of place, and each ingredient worked together to create the perfect symphony. I wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but as I eyed him carefully chopping the onions and measuring out just the right amount of olive oil, I pictured myself doing the same thing.

It wasn’t until I heard the loud bang of a silver spatula hitting the tile that I realized my eyes were closed.

“Ah, sorry about that. I got a bit carried away.” Steven said, tapping my arm. He looked me up and down and cocked his head.

“Wait a minute, are you actually enjoying yourself?” He said, smiling.

I let out a small laugh. “You know what? I am. I guess it’s not so boring after all.”

When Steven laid the pieces of steak on the pan, a strong smell started wafting through the house. The perfect symphony was becoming a beautiful song. I was lost in thought again until Steven’s smooth voice interrupted.

“I have a few more pieces of meat in my garage freezer. Would you mind grabbing them?” He said, his eyes still focused on the pan.

I nodded, walked out of the kitchen, and started walking down a narrow hallway. It was dark, but I didn’t know where the light switch was, so I felt my way against the wall until I felt a door handle hit my side. Steven’s garage was practically empty except for his garbage can and two large freezers. I shivered. This was the coldest garage I’d ever been in.

I opened the first freezer and found nothing but a few bags of ice. The second one, however, was full. I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing at first – all I saw were pale, gray shapes wrapped in paper. Then it hit me.

A human arm severed just below the elbow was sticking straight up in a compartment on the inside of the freezer door. That’s all I could make out before I backed away and fell to the ground in a daze. My mind was racing and my heart was pounding so hard I thought the neighbors would be able to hear. I looked around for the button that would open the garage door.

I tried to get up, but couldn’t move my legs. Now I was starting to really panic. What the hell was wrong with me? My eyelids were starting to feel heavy. Fighting to keep them open, I heard the door to the rest of the house open.

Steven walked carefully toward me, a large cleaver in one hand.

“You didn’t even ask me what bottle I poured.”