Complicated Cooking

The pot was boiling over.

It hadn’t started recently either. A cloud of foam steadily grew, spilling over the steel side and sizzling as it slipped against the flame, creating a haze of steam.

“ORIAL,” came a scream as the door slammed, a figure bursting into the apartment and dashing towards the stove. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

His hand deftly flipped off the stove, and the sizzling slowed.

Orial, wooden spoon in hand, had started when the door had slammed, and now looked at the mess with dismay.

“I’m sorry-” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“Were you cooking?” her visitor demanded. “You know you aren’t allowed to use the stove. Or the oven, or drive-”

“I know,” Orial said, her eyes glassy, pearly tears gathering within them. “I just wanted to make you something Sam.”

Sam took a deep breath, taking the spoon from her hands and setting it on the counter before wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.

“It’s too easy for you to get hurt,” he reminded her gently. “You can wait for me to get here. Then we can make something together.”

She nodded against his shoulder, and he could feel how tense she held herself, how defensive.

“Let’s order something tonight,” he suggested, leading her towards the tiny couch that sat in the corner. “We’ll make a plan for next time.”

A nod was the only response.

They ordered Chinese together, huddled on the couch, and Sam flipped on the TV as they waited, absent-mindedly watching as his mind worked its way around what could happen, what might.

When the doorbell rang, he started, beginning to get up. Orial lay like a limp doll on the couch, her eyes staring into the distance, barely open.

It was hard to ignore the bitter lump of sadness he felt at seeing her like this, far away in a world where she could only go.

She didn’t choose, he knew, and that she hated her every trip to that world.

Still it stung, and he paid for their food with a small sense of despair.

Setting the small paper cartons on the narrow strip of floor between the couch and TV, he watched her, her eyes glazed. What was she seeing, he wondered every time.

Silently she slipped onto the floor next to him, helping to open the white boxes and offering a cardboard-wrapped pair of chopsticks.

It’s seeing myself, she had told him before. But not being able to control myself. Like watching my life, but not being able to affect it. Sometimes, when her eyes flicked into awareness once more, she said that she didn’t remember anything that had happened, that she had done.

The TV rambled on beside them as we ate, chopsticks scraping across paper. Her eyes flicked up towards him, meeting his attempt at a reassuring smile.

“Tomorrow,” Sam began, who felt a small wave of relief when he saw the curiosity in her gaze. She was back. “What should we make?”

A small shrug was the answer.

“Maybe we shouldn’t make anything,” was the discouraged reply. “We’ll just grab something again.”

Sam shook his head, watching as she let the chopsticks fall into the empty container, tipping it over.

“Let’s make something,” he insisted. “It’ll be fun.”

His companion only shrugged, gazing despondently at the floor.

“What were you thinking of making for tonight?” came the gentle question, and she glanced up at him, her large brown eyes searching his.

“Just some pasta,” she whispered, seeming to curl more into herself. She always did this, when she was uncomfortable, when she was sad. Before her eyes glazed over and she seemed to stare right through you, barely speaking, in her own world.

Sam leaned forward, placing his hand on hers. The seeds of a smile hinted on his face, not the smile of happiness that was, but the promise of happiness yet to come hidden in the curve of his mouth.

“We’ll make some pasta tomorrow.”

She nodded, the own hint of a smile tugging at her lips. 

Almost immediately after they had dumped the paper cartons into the trash, Sam’s phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

“That’s my alarm,” he sighed. “I have to go now.”

Orial nodded disappointedly, walking after him to the door and watching silently as he slipped on his shoes and ran his hand through the sandy nest on his head.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked hopefully, his face asking her an unspoken question, conveying his worry.

She nodded quickly, stepping forward suddenly and wrapping her small arms around him.

“See you tomorrow,” she mumbled, stepping backward.

He smiled at her, leaned forward, and placed a small gentle kiss on her cheek. “Wish me luck!”

The door closed behind him, and the apartment was quiet once more, the dim droning of the TV still drifting through the apartment.

It was with two grocery bags in hand that Sam appeared the next evening, still in uniform from one of his many part-time jobs. Orial slowly unpacked them as he changed, stacking the boxes of pasta neatly, lining up the jars of tomato sauce in neat rows. 

He emerged from the bathroom with his sleeves rolled up, and he smiled encouragingly at her. 

“Ready to get cooking?”

The night before hadn’t gotten far. She hadn’t been able to get past boiling the water, so worried about using the stove, about messing it up, and nervous about being alone that she had made all her fears come true by spiraling into an entirely different world.

Sam was cheerful. He always was. Worry was safely tucked away when he was with her, so focused on making these small moments together happy. The small kitchen, dusty and barely used, was grateful for the exercise as they cooked the pasta and heated up the tomato sauce.

He knew she didn’t like salad, so he had brought a selection of fruits, which were cut up and mixed into a much sweeter type of salad. 

Neither of them knew how to cook to any degree, but the meal they both hoped to achieve was a simple affair that they could manage. 

The table itself was barely used, so small and squeezed into the corner as it was, but Orial had found a tablecloth that her aunt had given her and spread it over the worn surface to honor the event, and the scarce dishes were placed neatly at each seat. 

It wasn’t perfect. The sauce burped over the edge of the tiny pan, the pasta was slightly underdone, and the fruit was cut haphazardly, but it was with two hearts alight with satisfaction that they sat down at the small table that night.

“What do you think?” Sam asked after they had both eaten their first bites. Orial looked up at him, her eyes dancing.

“I love it.”

They both did. They loved the feeling of accomplishment that had settled on their shoulders, the time that they had spent together making something, and they loved sitting down and enjoying it, with no reason to delve into other worlds, to fake smiles, nothing to do but sit and eat with the blissful happiness of the moment.