"Help me with the crostini before you leave, Emilyyy." Maya holds my hand and pouts like a child.
If I could only save one out of the two most important people in my life, I'd probably go with her. But right now, I know her life is not in danger, and she only wants me to pick her over him. I won't blame her for caring less for Mike because my ingenuity is slowly becoming obvious to her as time passes.
My eyes slant to the door. In my head I am already stepping toward the exit, but Sebastian moves and blocks my vision.
"Do you have a clear visual of the stone head?" Maya is glancing up at me. I nod slowly. "Relax, he is on Stephen. You'll be fine."
I am not as bothered about Sebastian as she is. I have the freedom of my break time, only choosing to remain in the kitchen because there is no other activity to do besides mix vegetables, pinch spices, sniff delicacies, taste them on my tongue, rolling the flavored goodness in my mouth until I am sure that a perfect feast has been attained. I stay only because I can't help but blame myself when a complaint comes to the kitchen.
We all work together as a team, and come what may, we take the blame together. Recently, I have come to notice Sebastian's eagerness to—not just scold—but fire a chef without second chances.
You cook the meal, put in your best. If it needs extra salt or cheese or pepper or curry—if it lacks the professionalism the cuisine has built over the years—if it's nothing like what we present on our menu—if you fail once, you are fired.
Those are Sebastian's threats summarized by Maya and me.
"I have to go to him," I whisper to Maya. The last three weeks have been hectic, and meeting up with a lover—no matter the difference in intensity of our feelings—doesn't seem like a totally bad idea.
"Fine. Go to him then. I'll have squeaky Josephine do it. Don't make such a fuss when you come home. I haven't had a fucking full night’s sleep in weeks," she groans and sets about cutting onions with her slender knife.
"I'll be back before lights out." I smile, and she kisses my cheek.
She feels warm to the touch. I like it.
I move to the sink, take off my gloves, and wash my hands. My fragile hands sink into the water. The water is cold, and I hurry through the process. I don't like it.
Sebastian is flapping his wings around the room, and Maya is uttering profanities beneath her breath as she whisks the dressing for the Vegan salad. I wave goodbye to Daniel, the butcher, as he makes his way into the kitchen with a tray of meats. I hurry past the storerooms, eager to be rid of the rush of being a chef. I float into the tight corridor that leads to the back door of the restaurant andsay goodnight to Veronika who should be working as the dishwasher but finds time to sneak out and have a smoke. She inhales and puffs, filling the surrounding air with the scent of tobacco.
I quickly move into the dark corners of the alley. There are streams of light coming from the open windows of the restaurant. Classical music drifts in the open air. TheMano Cuisinestands like a castle amid all the other buildings that flank it in the neighborhood. I take measured steps back, breathe in the air, and watch the magnificent building that has taken me in without any documents, certificates, or job experiences.
TheMano Cuisinehas saved me. It brought him to me, and I will forever be thankful.
"Night, Smithson. Watch out for road bumps!" Veronika yells after me.
I am sure they know too much about Mike and me already. I doubt privacy will ever be achieved as long as I work as a chef.
"I'll see you soon, Veronika. Don't kill your lungs now before Sebastian gets a chance to break them in chunks," I say to her.
She laughs, but it sounds more like choking sounds.
I am walking down the street, my feet maintaining the usual pace, covering a mile in 16 minutes. One foot in front of the other, my light slippers make the faintest sound on the cemented sidewalksof a quiet place, a pleasant city—the only path I have walked since I became a chef.
When I get to a clearing, I tuck my coat tighter around me; it's a cold night. February.I should have gotten mittens for my hands.
No pressure, just keep walking. All the warmth I'll ever need waits for me.
There is a lake in the distance. I see it now.
The moon casts its eye upon it, making the surface come aglow with life. The current is peaceful. Leaves float on the water.
My eyes scan the familiar meeting point, then I see him seated with his hands in his lap. It's dark, but I recognize the man in the blue apron. I recognize the locks of sand-colored hair that greet my eyes, and my stomach flutters.
He hasn't even looked my way yet, and I panic. I feel light-headed. I think I am going to be sick. Soon, I know he'll hug me and kiss me. Soon, he will be exploring my body, but I doubt I'll let him get too far. I hardly ever do because…I don't even understand why!"Mike," I call, my voice sounding strange to my ears.
Slowly, the sand-colored locks turn to reveal a young man with a dazzling smile. A man with pale skin and freckles on his cheeks. It's dark, and I wish to see all these features: the brown depths of his eyes, the tiny nose that has become a subject of my mockery of him, his small pink lips that almost make him appear feminine.
"Mike," I say again with a wide smile. He stands and walks to me. My pulse hammers in my veins. Now that I am here, an even worse conflict of emotions arises, surging like a turbulent storm, and I am anxious to have him close, to send them all away.
He must read my mind because he closes the distance between us quickly. Standing before me with his hands by his sides, our breaths fill the space. I swallow, unsure of what else to do or say.