What You Would Do for an Audience

Painfully nostalgic paradise presses in on you from all sides; with the same thoughtless repetition as the waves, you ask why you’d even take the time to come here without her. The Jamaican sun beams from its high perch, warmly penetrating your skin that you know is in need of sun; the teal waves lap at your feet, cooling them with refreshing playfulness; the air is thick with the smell of salt, a beach hallmark you’ve long craved. But everything could just as well be a monotone, texture-absent gray. Your eyes—no, your whole body—remain cold. The last time you were here keeps replaying in your mind, memories of her still vivid after all this time.

You’ve been sitting here for hours, now. People have crowded around you, propping up the umbrellas that remind you of her for no reason, sickeningly cheerful monuments to your heartache. All you can do is stare out at the water in neverending mourning. Not just mourning, though: aged shock, longing. She would point out how melodramatic you’re being, how closed-minded, obsessive you are. She would laugh. And when she laughed, joy far greater than any Jamaican sun would shine through her eyes, a sound far greater than the crash of any Jamaican wave would pour out of her mouth. She was intoxicating. 

The pungent smell of frying fish—salmon, maybe—awakes you from your reverie, wafting with it memories of your fated affair with the art of cooking itself. The staff here certainly know how to cook; it smells delicious. But its mouthwatering quality has the opposite effect on you now. You want to gag because of the sheer pain the smell conjures—you’d been so happy the first time you cooked salmon with her. Happiness seems completely alien to you now, but you used to bask in it.

The resort has changed a lot since last time: the kiddie pool, the waterslide, the now-blue canopies. It feels so much more… fake, inauthentic. Pandering. A festival of superficialism, starkly contrasting your bitter, raw feelings.

You’ve always hated these resorts, always felt like a horrible person for having these overworked people wait on you around the clock. But she didn’t; she loved things like this. She was nice to the staff, didn’t just sympathize with them. Last time, she kept trying to coax you out of your tortoise shell of guilt to get you to appreciate it all. And she was good at persuading—you fell for her coaxing because you’d fallen for her.

Last time, the third night was the best one. It’s still etched in your mind with the impressionistic skill of Rembrandt. She went out to the beach and sat on the shore with you, both your arms around her shoulders. The frothy white fringes of the ocean crept up and down the beach, almost touching your entangled feet. Tiki torches were lit along the shoreline: small, orange, flickering imitations of the shimmering moon. You could feel her breathing against your chest, her hair cascading over your shoulder. You kissed her head and buried your nose into it.

You sat there forever. And every second of that eternity was worthwhile, because it was with her.

That moment was the most intimacy you’ve ever felt, you realize. The absolute majesty of the night made you both feel so insignificant that you were pushed, no, forced into each other. She was the only person you could turn to in that moment, but also the only person you wanted to turn to. The gentle forces of nature powerfully converged on you, echoing and accepting your love.

After that night, it was a honeymoon all over again. You weren’t young, but you were infatuated with her, and she with you. You were able to throw all your guilt down onto the floor of your room for housekeeping to take care of. The only thing that mattered was her and what she wanted, because what she wanted was pure, noble, good. 

When you came back from that first trip, you began to cook together. It was something an article in the hotel magazine pointed out: cooking together brings a couple together. And all you wanted was to be closer to each other, and cooking sounded fun, so you did it. The first dish you made was braised salmon that turned out blackened, overseasoned—bad. But the food didn’t matter back then.

It was perfect, really, cooking with her. The privilege of retrospect has shown how much you really loved it.

Then the food began to matter. You realized you liked cooking; cooking with her stopped mattering as much. The crisp of a freshly chopped bell pepper, the mouthwatering sound of a searing steak, the taste of perfectly married flavors. And it was a revelation, because you’d never enjoyed anything very much before. You’d always told people that your stance on life was universally ambivalent, but now you had something to be passionate about. It was nice to be committed to something new, something vibrant. It was nice to feel like an artist. You began to cook even if she couldn’t. You began to spend all your free time finding recipes, in the kitchen, looking for other people who liked food as much as you did. You began to lecture her for doing things wrong. 

There was no money or time to pay for culinary school, so you taught yourself. Souffles, tartares, even basic salads, had to be mastered. She watched, applauded you. She enjoyed your food, always complimented it. Even if it wasn’t good. She would come up and hug you from behind while you cooked.

15 recipes later, you were churning out dishes that branded you as a prodigy among the fellow cooks you’d recently gotten acquainted with. 

The way you work with spices is breathtaking. I really think this is one of the best soups I’ve had. You’re actually good at this. Really good. I wish I could cook as well as you.

They began to come to your house more; you began to cook for them and they for you. You discovered two things you had never had an abundance of: friends and applause. They wanted and supported and loved you. And their cheering, their applause, their attention, forced you to commit to the art of food. You stayed up late every night, perfecting recipes.

You were falling in love again, but this time, not with her. 

She didn’t like that you had become such a food aficionado. She wanted you to take time to spend on other things, to not be obsessed with what she called the “appetizing idol of cooking,” always laughing at her metaphors. You didn’t laugh, though. You couldn’t believe that she’d stopped being supportive. 

She would still come up to hug you, but you began to resent those hugs. They only slowed you down.

You began to push her away.

Your back faced hers when you lay down to sleep. Tension saturated the air. Her inability to show any feeling or praise frustrated you. At least you had your fellow chefs.

One day, they suggested you open a restaurant. You hadn’t thought about that before. You decided to do it. You announced it to her as she walked through the door that night, documents covering the kitchen table. It wasn’t going to be that big of a deal, just a financial restructuring. Nothing she should be worried about.

You expected applause, joy, compliments on how bold and daring and experimental you were. But she looked at you with sad, almost-watering eyes, and slowly walked to your room. She didn’t say anything. 

That was insane of her. Rage was barely detectable in your normally-placid eyes. Didn’t she know that you needed support? Wasn’t she aware that this was a big decision?

“Yes, it’s just that I—I want to be a part of your big decisions.” She sat down on the bed.

How unfeeling! It was your decision, your life, your money. You let her know all these things. 

She sniffled, tears trickled down her cheeks. She just stared at the wall for a while. Then, started packing her suitcase. She hadn’t told you about any trip she was going on, which made you resent her more. Out of spite, you didn’t ask her about it. You went to the kitchen, began chopping celery for no reason. The knife quickly sliced through the crisp vegetable, and you could feel the tension flowing out of you. The chefs could understand you, at least.

She walked out of the door without saying goodbye. This made you even more mad, so you started chopping carrots. They took more strength, drained more stress. You chopped until you were out of carrots. Then leaned back on the counter, breath heavy. 

This is when you should’ve apologized. 

You never saw her again. But you didn’t mind, then. You had a life in front of you—she clearly didn’t. The only life she’d have would be one full of hate and disinterest and loathing. 

After loads of time and planning and hiring, the restaurant opened—you were so excited. All your friends were there. The seats were packed. Your heart raced as you started cooking up the first dishes. 

And people liked it. A lot. They kept coming back. You built a successful restaurant, one that people loved. And that, in and of itself, was enough.

But that was ten years ago. You didn’t think that cooking would ever grow old, but it became monotonous. The crowds you enjoyed early on waned. You had to be at the helm of the restaurant, couldn’t think of anyone else running it. But you were tired of it running, and had enough to retire. 

So you sold it. 

And now, looking back, you miss her. You don’t miss food. You want her back. You just want her to come up from behind, right now, and hug you. You’d hug her back, this time.

But this makes you upset. You haven’t devoted the last ten years of your life to her, and she hasn’t spoken to you for any of them. She doesn’t care about you anymore, and you don’t—can’t—care about her. If you cared about her, you would’ve talked to her before. This is just an extended phase of heartbreak. 

You love her, but you don’t want to love her. You want to love food.

You remember that first night of cooking, when you made the salmon. Even though it was bad, you enjoyed it. You realize how much greater that salmon could be now, in your expert, seasoned hands. Maybe recreating that salmon, remaking that first dish, could revitalize your love for cooking itself. 

You decide that it’s worth a shot. So you get up from your rock, walk underneath the already-forgotten Jamaican sun, across the already-forgotten Jamaican sand, pack up your belongings, and head home to your kitchen. 

You pull out the salmon, begin dicing celery and tomatoes and carrots and onions, invite your friends over for dinner. You wait for the spark you felt originally, but it doesn’t matter if it comes or not. You’ve spent the last ten years cooking; even if you have to torture yourself to love it, you will.