An Inexpensive Plate of Love

Brian couldn't cook. He could do plenty of useful things: knit colorful sweaters, fix a tire, pick up a local custom within minutes of being somewhere new. But for the life of him, Brian couldn't cook. Unfortunately, Brian, like so many others in New York City, was a hopeless romantic.

It was Brian and Rob's sixth anniversary of dating, and it was also the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic. How romantic, right? There was nothing like living in the epicenter of a worldwide pandemic and being young and in love. Each day that went by, Brain could feel Rob's stress building. Brian, whose computer analytics job was usually spent in a cramped, dark room with little to no outside interaction, was better at adapting to the time's circumstances.

On the other hand, Rob had a myriad of things to worry about: his job in real estate, which had been losing clients and funding ever since March. His mother, a stout, eighty-four-year-old who was currently in a nursing home and whose roommate had tested positive for COVID-19. And his sister, who was due to give birth to twins in mere days, and would have to go into a hospital that was overcrowded and understaffed.

Brian wanted more than anything to rid Rob of that stress, if only for a couple of hours. He missed the smile that had once graced Rob's face, but today seemed covered beneath a layer of "quarantine stumble" and dread. He remembers the first time he heard Rob laugh. It was at their first date when, after the waitress showed them to their table, Brian completely missed his chair and ended up on the floor. Even though looking so serious before, Rob gave out a loud, deep-throated laugh that made everybody in the restaurant turn their way. 

It was that memory that gave Brian his plan. On their anniversary, Brian would transport them back to a New York City they loved instead of the current one, which felt like a death threat. He would transform their dining room into that small, dusty French restaurant in Greenpoint where they had had their first date. Inexpensive plates would hold La Poulet et Les Pommes (and unlike the literal translation, it was not just chicken and apples). Leftover pine-scented candles from Christmas would line the table. And the music would be acoustic versions of Coldplay songs. (They weren't the couple that stayed in much.)

That was how Brian ended up in a blithering sweat, double-masked and armed with hand sanitizer roaming the aisles of the Whole Foods for dijon mustard. (How that was different from regular mustard, he couldn't tell you.) The shopping so far had been a completely exhausting disaster. The local market didn't have red potatoes, so he had to go 20 blocks to the next. He had walked, the subways being too dangerous with the raging virus. He had no idea where the honey had been in the supermarket, and the store was so crowded, and the workers were so busy that he skipped it altogether.

When Brian had finally gotten home, Rob was busy with work, unable to get away to walk Wanda, their dog. So Brian took her out. Wanda refused to settle for the tiny grass patch outside their building, forcing him to walk another five blocks to the park. He came home sweaty and with a constant itch on his face, a result of the mask whose fabric didn't agree with Brian's cheekbones.

Why is this kitchen so small? Brian thought to himself once he finally got down to cooking. It wasn't this tiny yesterday. 

As the water started boiling (this was one cooking-based thing Brian could do), he glanced at the mail Rob had brought up during one of his few breaks. Flipping through the NYT pages, Brian spotted a bride and groom photographs at their wedding a couple of months before the end. His face fell. Brian had been planning a significant proposal to Rob; it involved a postponed trip to Italy. Brian loved Rob more than anything. On subway rides home from work, he had imagined seeing Rob wearing a suit waiting for him at the end of the aisle. He was spending more time than ever with Rob, yet it felt so wrong. They had waited for a Supreme Court to determine whether love is love. It seemed unfair that the joy had stripped away something so hard fought for and so long awaiting. He stared at the photo for a few lingering seconds, and then he heard the water screech as it hit the stove and hurried back into the cramped corridors.

Two hours passed, and seven half-burnt matches lined the table when he rang the dinner bell. When Rob walked out of his study, the dark circles that floated under his eyes seemed to have vanished. He appeared to have shed a few what Brian called "quarantine layers." They took their places, him in an armchair and Brian on a yoga ball. Rob's eyes glanced at the food, but soon they looked at the wedding photo in the NYT. Brian's eyes teared up a bit; he had forgotten it was there. Rob's eyes flickered back to his plate. He took the first bite. Rob smiled. Brian smiled. Perhaps he had finally gotten the hang of this daunting hobby. Rob raised his wine glass to his mouth but put it down before sipping it.

Then Rob said nothing. He got up and went into his office, reemerging with a pair of scissors and a photo with the two of them on a mountain in Alaska. Rob carefully cut out the NYT's wedding couple and himself and Brian's faces from the photograph. He found some glue in the toolbox and pasted their faces on the bodies of the married couple. Rob put the newly made photo in the frame. He handed it to Brian. He leaned across the table, looking first at Brian's so eager to please eyes and then to the framed photo, and said, "This is the worst thing I have ever tasted. I love you."