One baby chicken for two

Every couple has things they hate to do; they grumble and winge but inevitably get on with the task at hand. Anna hated to cook roast chicken but Max loved it when she did; so naturally she did it at least once a week. There was always so much sinewy mess at the end that just seemed to linger; the fat, the stocky smell of salt. He said it felt like home, she thought it felt stifling.

They both worked hard every day, allowing the other space to prioritise their careers like good modern millennials. Deep down, he felt the publishing house was a glorified hobby for her, though ultimately she paid the mortgage. She empathised with the long hours the law firm demanded of him, though he ultimately didn’t push back; part of the pleasure was knowing he was needed. His only real escape however was to run; long and hard and alone. He didn’t care where, as long as the running happened each day his role in life could be fulfilled. 

The Prichard’s next door had a small chicken coop. It’s resident rooster, Graham, became Max’s wake up call to step out into the dark morning and beat the pavement. He’d think about nothing. Life was progressing just how it should, just how he’d been told it would. On his way home he’d pap some pictures for their joint Instagram account. It was Max’s brainchild but Anna placated the dance they played out online because she knew he loved being loved. Another outwardly perfect life panned out online for people to pine for.

One cooler than normal Thursday in July, an elated Max returned to their Shoreditch flat, eggs from Graham’s hareem in hand and a London Marathon ballot place proudly displayed as if it were last night’s winning EuroMillions ticket. She supposed for him it was and smiled as he clucked around the flat in a celebratory pair of new sneakers. He asked for roast chicken that night and they made quiet love on the sofa whilst watching Chariots of Fire on Amazon Prime.

As he slept, Anna started to reluctantly simmer the empty chicken carcass. Once out of eyesight and earshot she quietly unfolded the letter which came for her earlier that day, reading it again heatedly whilst remaining frozen in place. She proceeded to tuck the paper into the recipe book her grandmother had handed down when they moved in together, pre-preparing her for a brood of her own. It wasn’t the right time to bring it up, not after the Marathon news, it could wait.

The rigorous training for the 42.2 began and they both took some joy in the process. Anna threw herself into nutrition, exploring every health food shop from Wapping to Whitechapel finding the next big thing that would give her boy the competitive edge. The Pritchard’s were recruited to the task force, along with Mrs. Pollard down the road who grew beetroot like it was going out of fashion. Unfortunately, the morning beetroot juices soon stopped after Anna was asked un-ceremonially to step back from a book pitch because she came to work with purple fingers.

The days got longer and so did the running. Anna asked her grandparents to bring an old dutch bicycle down from their family home on the Norwich coast so she could keep Max company. She would cycle a few meters behind him, bound together but never too close, his heavy breath rhythmic and rattled as each foot strained to remain on the floor. He knew running could bring them together, bring them a shared passion they could talk about, he knew she’d get on board.

As the nights got longer the bike with the basket came out less and less and she took to sitting on a bench in Victoria Park to watch him run laps, his own makeshift hamster wheel. He was so wildly dedicated to the cause, to anything he put his mind to. It’s why she’d fallen in love with him, his hunger, his desire, his passion to achieve anything he thought he was capable of. He used to be hungry for her, but she supposed hunger soon gets satisfied. She was his roast chicken, a dependable staple that tasted the same no matter how you cooked it.

The letter in the tattered cookbook continued to sit dormant, though it was quickly joined by another chaser. She had until spring to decide so hoped she could run away until then. When the third letter came she didn’t hide it with the rest, just shredded it into the compost bin along with the chicken carcass from the previous night. The bone broth she’d lovingly made lay cloudy in the kitchen. With careful love and attention it would clear up but for now it was impossible to see to the bottom of the pan, impossible to know what to do or what the right decision was, other than to just keep stirring and hope for some clarity.

Crocuses and snowdrops came and went, daffodils appeared and race day rolled into view. He felt good, he felt prepared. In the week running up to the race Max struggled to contain himself, visible excitement appeared on the boys face lining up to select his race number, picking up his race pack, queuing for an extortionary long time to get a picture next to the London Marathon sign, queuing again to get a picture next to his name on the entrants wall.

On race day morning, he excitedly requested lucky scrambled eggs from Graham’s hareem. Anna obliged as always but neglected to confirm the eggs lineage. She looked up in silent prayer, the poor Pritchard’s coop now laid dormant after a fox messily beheaded their entire clutch six nights previously. She didn’t want him to think it bad luck for the race, so the omen instead clung to her, another secret to stash away for another day.

The marathon came and went without a hitch. He breezed the race, collecting an admirable finish time which was three minutes ahead of his target, no doubt leading to thoughts of another target time to beat next year. She met him by Trafalgar square and handed him a spare change of clothes, the medal remaining firmly attached to his chest as a badge of honour. She packed away the soiled outfit and trotted behind the hero as he strode towards his favourite cafe. They sat in the window, a perfect couple framed by light, a picture of happiness to every heavy trodden pedestrian roaming the post marathon streets.

One baby chicken for two, order up

The place was small but popular, waitresses had to dive in and out of tête-à-tête tables to let each other past with plates raised above their heads, the pang of smoke and alcohol filled the space with warmth. The menu had recently changed, a range of specials listed on the board behind already had a few popular options scratched out.

One baby chicken for two, order up

He hurried her to decide from the menu but it was hard. It was easy for him, he knew what he wanted, he wanted her at home every day to cook for him and praise him when he increased his Vo2 max.

One baby chicken for two, order up

She kept thinking of the chicken he’d no doubt ask her to cook tomorrow, and how many she might be asked to cook in her entire lifetime.

One baby chicken for two, order up

The letter at home burnt the back of her mind, two versions of a future stuck together.

One baby chicken for two, order up

She stared at the menu for answers, not noticing Max rummaging around in his inside pockets.

One baby chicken for two, order up

A waitress turned on a sixpence to pick up a dish on the pass and collided loudly with another waitress who had gotten there first. A baby chicken lay on the floor, wet and alone, unable to be salvaged. There was no 5 second rule that could bring this one back to life.

One baby chicken for two, order up

She looked up and slowly slid a piece of paper across the table at him, the Pratt Institute School of Design visible on the letterhead. She hadn’t noticed him do the same but with a ring box from his inside pocket. 

They both stared at the items presented, neither knowing what to say. Each presented a path, a future, an opportunity, a fate. They were signs to mark a hefty fork in the road which they inevitably had to decide on which route to take. He thought this is what she’d wanted, what every thirty something woman wanted, surely?

I just don’t want a baby chicken was all she could seem to say in response.

From the window outside the couple looked serene, the perfect picture into a not so perfect partnership. When they began the slow journey home she wondered if he knew she’d already packed her bags, she’d been doing it for weeks without him even noticing.

****

She could taste salt in her mouth as she jogged around the lake in central park, the air warm and thick with the signs of summer. When she left she’d cried every night, mourning the life she’d built and then thrown away, for the possibilities that would now never come to pass.

One evening she’d walked the entire length of central park alone, tears primed and ready. Without warning she’d started running, running from her feelings, from the life she’d left, from the life she’d thought she was starting, just away from it all.

Ironically, it felt good. She thought of Max across the sea, somewhere the next continent along, probably in the same moment running away from his feelings just like her.

She smiled. As painful as it was, they were both now free, finally able to run towards a future they both wanted and deserved.

Her future just so happened to be a vegetarian one.