SATe [✔]

[3] nepenthe

"You've barely touched your food, dear."

I'd walked into the house two hours ago, and she hadn't said a word. She only had to take one look at me. That was enough to tell her all she needed to know, and she disappeared into the kitchen. She'd often sit with me and discuss work, even if there was a non-disclosure agreement at hand; then she'd bring out the meal heated in the bottom of the oven. This was different, and I found out why immediately.

She had created a spread of some of what she considered my favourite meals. This woman, who I refused to call mother for the past several years, arranged her sleeping pattern to account for the hours that I had started to work in security detail; she was happy to cook for me as soon as I arrived home from a shift. So, when I had walked through the door at 2 o'clock in the morning, she went to work straight away as she usually would. This time, however, she could tell something was wrong and cooked to reflect it.

On the right side of the table sat a wooden platter with a freshly baked loaf of bread that was filled with sunflower seeds and an array of others which was accompanied by a small plate of a bright yellow butter. Part of me had wanted to grab the entire loaf, slather it in copious amounts of the butter and consume it whole. However, the other part of me was acknowledging the sensation I felt in my stomach. There was a vomit-inducing feeling that refused to part from my body, whether that be because of the events that had occurred a few hours prior as a whole or the image of my friend being torn apart that lingered in my memory; too vivid to ignore.

She had even gone to the trouble of making a soup from scratch; a warm chicken broth with spring onions, celery and carrot and adorned with plenty of seasoning. She even added extra parsley, despite hating it herself. In a few minutes, she'd pull out some burnt-around-the-edge enchiladas and sit down with me in a semi-uncomfortable silence. And I just know that on top of this there would be a bowl of strawberries somewhere and another bowl of cream chilling in the fridge ready for dessert; her thoughtfulness clear to see, as always.

I can't help but wonder if the dark circles under her eyes were my fault entirely. She wipes her just-washed hands on the teapot patterned apron she was wearing and picks up the cup of tea she'd brewed. She was looking at me with such sincerity and compassion, that it almost hurt to deny her efforts tonight. I couldn't find myself being comforted by the lavender scent she gave off, or the slight smile she was trying to ease me with; but worse than that, I couldn't bring myself to tell her the reason for my distress.

Therefore, I found myself resorting to an unexplainable truth, "I can't find the motivation to eat." I could feel that in my stomach. When you just know that a bite of something isn't going to sit right with you? It's that feeling that sometimes comes just after feeling so hungry you could eat an entire buffet; an unexplainable resentment for food.

Her eyes had dropped, but she nodded understandingly; which just infuriated me more. The look on her face reminded me of the man that'd tried to convince me that forgetting was the better option for me. And that reminded me of the text I'd been sent on the drive home.