He ripped open the pasta box, the Safeway logo torn in
half, and haphazardly poured the noodles into the boiling water. His attention was directed at the minute hand
directly across the room. 6:15 pm. A few noodles leaped from the pot, diving
head first onto the floor; not a single noodle broke. He picked them up, envious of their
resilience but he knew their secret. Boil in
water. Off they went to their inevitable
doom; the hope of escape brought about an overwhelming feeling of despair.
As the noodles were engulfed in their watery grave, he
went downstairs into the cellar. Domaine
Leroy Musigny. Egon Müller-Scharzhof Scharzhofberger. Ah, Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru. He had been saving this bottle for a special
occasion. No other event could top
tonight.
He entered the kitchen to find the pot fuming with a rage
fueled by the despair of the noodles. He
quickly began to stir the water and gain control of the situation. This action came with grave consequences to
his forearm. The scolding liquid left a
mark that would stain him until his deathbed.
The burnt smell of flesh awakened his appetite. The flesh had a very distinct and familiar
smell. In fact he could have sworn there
was a hint of parsley in the air. Ding!
The oven timer reminded him that time was up, the meatballs were
ready. He stretched out his arm in order
to reach the oven mitt while continuing to stir the noodles. Clash!
The glass pot cover slammed onto the floor as he snatched the oven mitt
from underneath it. He sighed.
* * *
The meatballs cooled on the counter as he rinsed the
noodles over the sink. It took every
fiber in his being not to look at the clock.
He set the noodles next to the meatballs and went to look for the
broom. The broken shards of glass lay
there, never again being able to reach their true potential. With one fell swoop the glass was gone. The floor looked like it had before the
crash. The floor continued as if nothing
had ever happened.
He put the glass in the recycling bin. He washed his hands and prepared himself for
the big decision: vodka pasta sauce or four cheese? He knew what his choice was but wondered why
he still felt nervous.
* * *
The sauce slithered over the noodles, slowly trapping
them in a liquid tomb. The meatballs
absorbed this pseudo life force; their burnt dry skin finally being soothed
after spending thirty-five minutes in the dark inferno. The vodka did well to complement the parmesan
cheese, a cheese that would have been overwhelmed had he made a different
choice.
The noodles, meatballs, and sauce all rested peacefully
on an imported dish from The Middle Kingdom.
Legend has it that the dish had been passed from generation to
generation, surviving civil wars, city riots, and toddlers. It had been a gift from his dead mother, and
since her passing he had refused to use it.
His footsteps echoed as he walked the plate over to the
dining room. The long expansive table
could comfortably sit twenty people. Only
one chair was ever used. He carefully
placed the family heirloom on the table, trying to make sure the meatballs did
not roll away.
His
body sank into the chair. He looked at
the grand cru and his mind began to swim in the bottle. He finally felt free. Free from his problems,
free from his despair, free from…7:36!
How had so much time passed?! He
bolted out of his chair, almost tripping on the lavishly long table cloth and
ruining his dinner. If that had been the
case, and if tonight had been ruined, his interior decorator would have hell to
pay.
Thank God! The
bread was safe. He hugged the basket of
bread with his right hand and carried a wine glass with a stick of butter and a
knife in his left. As he set the glass
on the table, he noticed butter skid marks on the glass. This would not do. This dinner had to be perfect.
* * *
The aged wine delicately flowed out of bottle and
gracefully settled into the immaculate wine glass. He looked with pleasure at the bounty before
him. He bit into the bread and then
drank the wine. Both of which seemed to
be giving him new life. As he was about
to plow into his salacious feast, he felt his stomach knot. His nerves were preventing him from enjoying
his favorite meal. He put his fork down
and took a deep breath. 8:22. Another breath brought control of his body
back to him. One last breath and his
mind was at peace.
The room echoed with sounds of his lips smacking and
throat swallowing. He had considered
playing his favorite song or watching his favorite movie but he truly wanted to
enjoy this meal with all his senses. The
pasta and meatballs ignited a celebration of flavor in his tongue while simultaneously
charring the roof of his mouth. Aged
wine soothed the burn and helped him forget about his pain.
* * *
His steady hand placed the dish back into the display
case. The dish had been carefully washed
using a name brand soap, and was then gently wiped clean with a recently bought
towel. With everything clean and stored,
he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a slice of tiramisu. The tiramisu stood firm, the cold had helped
keep its composure. Before he left the
kitchen, he grabbed a wooden box from under the sink. The way he grabbed the box had made it seem
like this was an everyday occurrence. This was not the case. In fact this was only the second time that he
grabbed the box since he bought it ten years ago.
He walked into his living room with his hands full. The box rested on his right palm, with the
tiramisu on top of it. The cake was
beginning to sweat from the long trip. His
left hand grasped the half empty bottle of wine.
He placed the box on the glass coffee table and sat in his
favorite loveseat. The bottle sat next
to him and gently rested its neck on his arm.
He picked up the tiramisu with his hand and took a bite. Slowly he chewed and the ambrosia started to
march down his tongue and into his body.
Each bite brought him an ecstasy that could only be imagined and
experienced in a long forgotten dream.
With his free hand he grabbed the bottle, popped it open, and gulped
down the remainder. Two more bites and
the tiramisu was gone. That was it. No proof of its existence could be found as
all the crumbs were licked off the plate.
* * *
9:01. Back on
track. He let out a sigh of relief. His feet rested on the coffee table, slightly
touching the wooden box. He pulled out a
silver cigar case from his pocket. The
case contained one cigar and one match.
The cigar was not the typical Cuban one would associate with a man like him,
but was instead a stogie from the Dominican Republic
A
slight hint of phosphorus filled his nostrils as the match united itself with
the cigar. It was a temporary
union. They always are. He sat there in the living room with only a
small lamp and the glow of his cigar lighting the room. Puff, puff, puff. The fragrance emitted by the cigar put him in
a trance. He was in a world not bound by
silly little rules. A world where he
just existed, where he didn’t have to worry about the silly games people play
and the silly ways people act. Puff,
puff, puff. He felt himself rising with
the smoke, the weight of his body ceased to exist. The smoke filled him with a primordial warmth
that had been curiously missing from his existence. Puff, puff, puff.
He pulled out a letter from his other pocket. His eyes carefully absorbed every line. The
strokes, the spacing, the length, it was all perfect.
He was surprised that he had written such a beautiful letter. It would be his most memorable work. This letter reassured him that the night would be a success. Now with the dishes
clean, the wine bottle empty, and the cigar butt in the ashtray there was only
one thing left to do. He grabbed the
wooden box and opened it.
* * *
He fell
through the coffee table. Clash! His body hit the floor. The floor was not as cold as he had imagined.
His blood had made his breathing awkward and weak. He felt his stomach knot. He started to panic as the empty wine bottle
rolled off the loveseat and transformed itself into thousands of little glass
shards. In a few days a broom would wipe everything up and the floor would
continue as if nothing ever happened.
He took a deep breath and looked at the clock. 11:59.
He smiled. Another breath
escaped, along with his control of his body.
One last breath and his mind was at peace.
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