Dust Bones [Harry Styles]

026

        chapter song; blame by Calvin Harris ft John Newman 

        Harry was asleep still, and it was about noon. It was so idiotic of me to do what I did. If anyone were here to judge me, they'd laugh and continue to harass me for it for years. 

        I'm no cook. Boiling water is a challenging ordeal. For me, I've never had to step foot into a kitchen and feel obligated to prepare a meal. 

        Oh well, I better get used to this because I can't count on Harry to do everything for me, especially with a very bad bullet wound in one of his arms. 

        And all the sleep he's been neglecting...I have to learn. 

        When I was in the Dominican Republic, I actually sat around the cook much of the time. And I remember her making the rice.

        They were simple step. I wasn't supposed to be around open flames for the longest of times when I stayed in D.R. The women would consistently offer me food, and if I stepped foot into their kitchen they'd bombard me with questions.

        I'm supposed to be intelligent, and I've declared myself intellectual to Harry many times. What would it look like if I can't even make rice?

        I began with getting the ingredients out, walking back and forth to the stove and the cabinets. From the fridge to the kitchen island. The cooking thing became easier as I went along with what I've seen people do around me. I'm ashamed to be clueless enough to not know my way around the kitchen. I'd hate to stereotype women, though. Not all of us were made to be in a kitchen. 

        Half an hour later, I dropped boiling hot water over my feet and the floor. I shrieked and bit the palm of my hand in pain. The skin across my feet burned hot, red and beginning to ache and burn. I winced and bent down to pick up the pot I dropped over my feet. 

        "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I snapped quietly to myself, trying to ignore the sharp ache on my feet. To no avail because I sat down for a couple of seconds with bare ice on my feet. I sighed in relief before forcing myself to continue cooking. 

        I was determined to make Harry food. I'm sickened by myself for being so clueless and helpless. All my life it's been the same story. I could never do anything on my own, and I guess that this feels different and in every way refreshing. 

        I stirred the the rice and burned the tips of my fingers when I grabbed the side of the pot too close to the bottom. Another loud shriek escaped my lips. I'm glad Harry was sleeping hard because I've already screamed a couple of times and he hasn't woken up. 

        Now it wasn't because I was a bad cook. It was because I was being stupid and nervous. Harry would definitely be the type to throw a plate of my own horrid food at me in the face. 

        When I tried frying the salami, the oil sparked all over my arms and just above my index finger, nearly cooking off the skin across my knuckle. I burned myself at least five times through this process. I whimpered in pain and heavily sighed. 

        "What...are you doing?" 

        I turned around furiously fast, my lips parted and my eyes gazing up into Harry's tired ones. He narrowed his eyes around the kitchen, and then blankly peered at me. His tired, husky, and raspy morning voice had my insides fucked. 

        I tried to say something, but the salami on the pan sizzled and popped, making me jump away and shriek. With my heart nearly in my throat, I gulped and shrugged my shoulders.