Her Melting Point

Working Around

Jackie swam in and out of that bogging sleep that still let the pain seep through but brought no relief; and every time she woke up, Alexander was there. His touch was endlessly soothing. He hadn't lied, he'd definitely had training: the pressure of his fingers on her temples, her mastoids, and her jaw seemed to chase away the black nauseating fog in her noggin.

The first couple of times when she managed to open her eyes, just for a bit, he handed her the water bottle and, once, lowered the temperature in the cottage. It turned out that he could do it from his mobile. Jackie was feeling too dicky to ponder the mechanics of it.

When she finally came to - with just a dull echo of pain in her right temple - the room was dark. She slid her hand over the duvet and found the spot next to her empty. She slowly sat up. She needed to go to the loo and to brush her teeth. The usual post-migraine low mood and exhaustion were setting in. And that's when she caught a delicious smell that was, to her shock, emanating from her kitchen.

She pulled on her jeans, quickly visited the lavatory, freshened up, and headed downstairs.

Never in her life had she seen a man cooking in her kitchen.

Her Grandfather had passed away before she was born. Her Father made an occasional cuppa, but that's as far as it went. Gabriel barbecued - it was, after all, 'the man's job' - but cooking was her responsibility, and consequently, yet another area that she'd failed in, as a wife. First, her weight had been blamed on the recipes she'd used, as well as her overall lack of skill. Then, after she'd taken classes, and her efforts had continued to disappoint, she'd been deemed 'unadventurous' and 'unambitious,' which in simple words meant that her inability to produce a culinary masterpiece after a ten-or-more-hour workday meant that she was boring and didn't try hard enough.

"Hey," Alexander said without turning, a knife in his hand meeting the board in a rapid regular staccato.

She couldn't help but to note how massive his shoulders were, and how some long muscles in his back moved under his jumper.

"How did you know I was behind you?" Jackie asked with a shaky laugh.

"I just do," he answered after a pause. "What are you craving?" he asked.

"Whatever you're cooking is perfect," Jackie said and craned her neck to see what was bubbling on her stove. "And where did you get the pan? Oh, where did the linens come from?!"

"Chorizo and egg skillet. It's keto and supposed to relieve a migraine." He put the knife aside and wiped his hands on the dish towel he'd had thrown over his shoulder. "Jicama instead of potatoes. Carbs are supposed to make it worse for you."

Their eyes met. As always, his irises were dark and inexpressive.

"Did you google the recipe for me?" Jackie asked in disbelief.

He nodded. "I don't have migraines."

The dish in the pan looked like a photo in a foodie magazine. Every little cube was precisely of the same size; and there were six eggs on it, the centre one equidistant from the other five that were placed in a perfect hexagon.

Jackie sighed. "You shouldn't have."

He studied her and went to start water for their tea, without a word.

"They are a present from your neighbour," he said, placing an unfamiliar kettle on a hob.

"What are?" Jackie tore her eyes off the food with difficulty. Her stomach growled impatiently. "And where did the kettle come from? And the pan? Also, what is a jicama? And did you get the groceries in–"

"Jackie," he said sharply, and then closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "I apologise."

"For what?! I mean, I'm sorry!" She shrank away from him. "I'm the one who should be sorry! You've done all this for me, and I haven't even thanked you. And you had to take care of me while I was sick, of all things!"