Salty

Eleven | Lasagna for One

Eleven | Ollie

It was the increase in volume of the kitchen timer that awoke me from a lazy afternoon nap. The Google Home device lit up with circling rainbow dots while it only continued to chime louder. I groggily rubbed at my tired eyes, as if it would release the exhaustion I'd been dealing with for the last two years.

"Okay, Google," I said to an empty room. "Stop my timer."

But it didn't stop. The damn thing never worked, even though I relied on it to keep my entire life organized. Without it, maintaining a life of a professor and a chef would be impossible. So even though I hated technology and preferred most of my life left to the old-fashioned way of doing things—the way every farm kid is raised—I needed this damn thing.

"Okay, Google!" I repeated, with a tone hinting I was ready to throw it out the window to a busy Chicago roadway. This time, it paused. "Stop my timer."

The colors circled one last time before the room went silent.

I didn't want to remove myself from the couch. It was too comfortable. The room was nice and dark, even though it was early afternoon. Storm clouds and booming thunder that rattled the old windows had sent me right off to a sleep I desperately needed. To dreams of splintered barn beams, a tire swing, and lofts of bailed hay. I could practically smell the pig shit, even though the farm was over a hundred miles away. This one wasn't a nightmare; I was a kid again. The timer woke me before that changed. And even though it was a dream, manure plagued my senses instead of my finished casserole.

"Get up, Oliver." I slid from the couch until my knees hit wooden floors and cursed my aging bones. "You have shit to do." I used the coffee table and the couch cushions for the support to bring me to my feet. The walk to the kitchen was more of a hobble. Chef life meant a stiff back most days.

Prior to falling asleep, I had prepared a spot for myself on the stainless island of the kitchen; complete with a fork, plate, and empty glass. Every meal was eaten from this spot. The room didn't need the dining table or chairs sitting beside it. I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't want to use it again. It was Shelby's, but there wasn't a chance in hell she was coming back. She had moved on before I could even grasp she was gone.

Being a chef, there was nothing lonelier than preparing a meal for one. I never was the type to reheat leftovers or repeat the same recipe two nights in a row. The bubbling lasagna pulled from the oven was made in the smallest casserole dish I owned, and I still would be throwing the leftovers in the trash. And even though no one was here to see it, I took my time to plate the food on a stark white platter—to make it look more like art than something to be devoured in a few bites. The dish was topped with freshly grated parmesan and some parsley from the herb garden which sat on the kitchen's window sill.

Meals were the loneliest times of the day. It was a reminder I chose this life. I wanted to go to school—to be the best. I worked my ass off, night and day for years, to accomplish it. Shelby only wanted me. I couldn't give her the attention she needed when that attention was already focused elsewhere. Now I sat alone, an accomplished chef, without the girl I'd done all this for. I came to terms with the fact I deserved it, but it didn't make seeing Shelby hurt less. I just wished I could find the power to move on after she did so easily.

Life was a bitch like that.

I shoved a forkful of lasagna into my mouth, extending my opposite arm to bring a stack of unchecked schoolwork forward. The taste of gooey cheeses, homemade noodles with spinach and chicken, was exquisite compared to the filmy taste of tobacco from my last cigarette. I had about fifteen minutes before I was due in the restaurant and had thirty assignments left to grade. I red-penned the stack as I finished lunch.