One
I walk home from work. My home is in view from across the estate. Living in a town has always appealed to me. Everything is close, but not claustrophobic like the city. No one ever calls it a city. The city is just “town”. Our tiny nation accepts that our biggest hub is humble on the world stage. I am a step removed from that again. Bigger than the village I grew up in, but smaller than “town”. I enjoy my work-life balance. I finish at 17:00. It is 18:20. The office does not care for my plans. Dinner is served by 18:30, but today the kitchen is running late.
I stop in the front garden. My body is warm. Was the walk that bad? I feel it in my cheeks. I have been lazy since starting the office job. The house is convenient. The same semi-detached house you see in every estate in Ireland. I make my way inside. “Mary, you home?” I say. Silence greets me. I make my way into the kitchen. My eyes are heavy. I move to the stove and perform the daily ritual. My body navigates the kitchen without thought. I enjoy the gas stove. The smell of gas somehow made it feel more real. Seeing the little flame come to life after a click, click, click. Pasta begins to droop into the boiling water. Looking up, I see a note on the extractor fan. “Pasta special x2,” the note reads. The paper is thin and pink, with some additional sections left empty. Why would Mary leave a note for dinner? I strain the pasta before adding it to a shallow pan with two egg yolks and Parmesan. I agitate the pan until a smooth sauce coats the pasta. A staple dish from my college days. As I plate the meal, I ring the bell. Mary comes in from the adjoining room. There is faint chatter in the distance. It disappears as the door swings closed behind her.
“Where were you? I was calling for you,” I say.
“I told you not to shout from across the kitchen,” she says. Her voice is sharp.
She wears a white shirt with black pants and a blazer. A neat ponytail finishes the look. Not a single strand of hair is out of place.
“Since when do you wear suits?” I say.
She has the face of a mother who’s been asked, “Are we there yet?” for the hundredth time.
“Do you ever look outside this kitchen, John?” she says. Her eyes dart to the plates of pasta. She rolls her eyes as she neatly shaves slices of Parmesan onto the dish. “Fine dining, John, we need to look the part, not just the food.”
“What are you talking about, Mary? It’s just dinner,” I say.
“It’s Maria for fuck sake, John, these people paid good money to be here,” she says, picking up the plates and moving toward the next room. “There are more tickets, get going,” she says, kicking the door open, letting it swing closed behind her.
I catch a glance. The next room is full of people. From here, I can see a chandelier hanging high above ten, maybe twenty tables. It is packed. The door swings shut, and the chatter dampens again. The kitchen feels huge. Double-sized fridges cover one wall. Brushed metal cabinets have replaced my wooden shelves and presses. The floor is spotless. A knife wallet spreads across the counter. A set of seven Victorinox knives stares back at me. Besides Mary, or Maria, they are the only thing that feels familiar in the kitchen.
I am drawn to the dining room. Who am I serving? The doors feel weightless as I barrel through. A woman is sitting on a couch with a plate of pasta. A second is waiting on a coffee table, still warm. The woman looks up.
“Everything ok, baby? You were taking a while,” she says.
“Yeah, just needed to clean up.” I glance around. There is no grand dining hall. The TV dominates the room. It’s too big, but the deal was too good to pass up. A re-run of Kitchen Nightmares is playing.
“The dishes can wait,” she says.
The woman is warm and smiling. Mary would never wear a blazer. I sit down, pushing the thoughts away.
Two
The alarm does not disrupt my sleep. I am already awake. Setting an alarm is just a formality. Mary is still in bed. An Oscar-winning performance, or a sleep so deep nothing could wake her. Last night’s dishes are still in the kitchen. The oil has formed a soft solid on the pan. It would have been easier to clean it last night.
The hot water agitates my skin. Small cuts cover my hands from pulling at loose skin. A childhood habit I could never kick. The water grows murky. I give my knife the honor of a fresh basin of water. It is still shining after years of use. I worked in kitchens growing up. I was never a chef, but spent plenty of time around then. Chefs make good friends. They’re honest and keep your belly full. No matter what chef I spoke to they always kept a decent set of knives. Growing up our kitchen knives were always blunt. I never appreciated how sharp a good knife is until I sliced my hand open. The restaurant would bake fresh bread every day. I was washing Chef’s knife to slice the load. As I ran the blade along a cloth to dry it there was a rip. The cloth turned ragged before bright red began to seep through. Chef said my face went completely white. Looking beyond the rag my hand was folding open like butterflied chicken breast. Bone was just about visible. Everything faded away for a minute. Next thing I remember is sitting in the mangers office with a tight wrap of bandages. I finished my shift. Since then I have respected knives much more. My own set is well looked after, and repected.