Dinner for Two

The woman stood in her kitchen peeling potatoes with hands that always seem to shake, the years of use bearing down on their precision. She hums as she works, the same tunes that charm the living room radio having been left on a low volume all day to keep the house from getting too quiet. A tree sat in the corner by the aged brown couch, wrapped in adornments of cranberries and popcorn, lights and tinsel reflecting on the surrounding surfaces.

The cabinets in the kitchen are all a light yellow to match the dining room, whose walls are faded in the same spots the sun is hitting as it sets that late afternoon, and a small oak table marred with scratches that echo laughs and dinnerware being passed across. The only places in the home untouched by age are those behind hung picture frames, displaying significant moments in their lives. A black and white portrait of a man in a suit and a woman in a white puffy sleeved dress, both smiling up to ears. A candid of the same couple a few years later laughing while dressed in cocktail attire with martini glasses in their hands. A picture of the woman painting a room, her swollen belly noticeable. A little further down, another image of the couple once again. But this time it is of their backs as they stand in mourning black holding hands in front of a small casket.

Back in the kitchen, the woman walks the stainless-steel pot of freshly peeled potatoes and room temperature water over to the mostly white stove, setting it down on the front left burner, the most worn of the four. With the potatoes set to boiling, she opens the oven door and peers in at the cut of prime meat far too big for one person to consume alone. The room fills with the scent of herbs and spices, rosemary prominent, and using two once-white oven mitts she pulls the heavy tray of meat out and sets it on the countertop. With a large spoon in hand, she ladles the cooked down fat out from the bottom and dumps it on top, careful not to pick up any of the aromatics at the bottom of the tray. She continues to do this for a few minutes before returning the meat back into the oven.

The woman checks on the potatoes briefly to see the water has begun boiling before she moves to the wood cutting board on the counter next to her with a knife and washed carrots already waiting atop it. She chops the carrots into disks, taking the time to make sure each is the same width as to keep them from cooking unevenly. Realizing she had not yet gotten a baking dish for the vegetable out of the cupboard she goes to the space next to the fridge where a foldable stool hides, pulling it over to the cabinet that stores what she needs. Her feet take unsteady steps as she climbs up the two steps even with a death grip on the balancing handle, so unused to having to do this task herself. Memories of all the times he had done it for her swept through her mind causing a twinge of sorrow. She never knew such kindness would later cause pain, the things that once made her love him more. Steadying her mind and body, she retrieves what she needs and puts the stool back in its place.

Once the woman had placed the carrots in the oven on the rack above the meat, she moves about the kitchen gathering all the items necessary for the dinner table. She grabs two plates, two forks, two knives, two napkins, two drinking glasses, and walks them over to the dining room table. She meticulously sets up each place setting, putting a plate in front of one of the matching four oak chairs before setting the red, embroidered napkin about an inch to the plate’s left. Then, centering the fork on the napkin before adding one of the knives to the opposite side of the plate. Lastly setting down a drinking glass just a few inches above before moving on to the spot across the table, still following the same order as she had for the past thirty-six years.

Returning to the kitchen, she moves the boiled potatoes from the stove and adds all the necessary ingredients from the mashed potato recipe she always makes. Once the dish is finished, she moves the contents into a forest green serving bowl, sprinkling chopped parsley on top before carrying it over to the table and setting it down. She continued to move back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room as she carried each component of the meal over to the table as they were completed, her actions so smooth and precise having been rehearsed for much of her life. She never minded the repetition each day seemed to yield, always feeling grateful to be living such a way where her main concerns were never much of note. There were bumps in the road of course, nights tears and words of anger took the place where smiles and laughter were usually shared. But even those moments eventually ended in declarations of love, apologies and forgiveness never hesitating to be dealt.

With everything finally ready, she stopped and observed the table from a distance, taking in the first time in so many years she would be spending an evening like this on her own. As she stood there, memories of this day years prior flashed through her mind. It was always the night they talked about the next year to come, where they might travel, people they might meet, time they would spend with those they already knew. But as she stayed in place, the woman could not think of the memories that awaited her in the coming year with the knowledge that there was one thing that would be missing from all of them moving forward. A single tear rolled down her cheek as the realization crashed down upon her. But she had shed enough tears in the weeks prior and refused to let them taint one of the most favored evenings of the year. So, with that she wiped the tear with the back of her hand and sat down at the table to eat.

With dinner eaten, dishes washed and left to dry on the rack next to the white porcelain sink, the woman walked to the closet by the front door and got out a tan and black scarf, a pair of black gloves, and a red kitted cap. She put them on in the same order she did every evening the chill outside made them necessary. Hat on first before wrapping the scarf around her neck twice, left then right glove, before she opened the door and stepped out into the frosty night. The woman sat on the porch swing staring out at the houses that lined up and down both sides of the street, the warmth of his presence heating the seat next to her. Though when she turned to the side he once occupied, she found it empty. And it would stay as such until she was unable to notice, because her own seat would be empty as well.