[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
There is a distinct rhythm to a kitchen in the morning.
It's a symphony composed of the sharp crack of eggshells against the edge of a porcelain bowl, the low hiss of butter melting and bubbling in a hot cast iron skillet and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee dripping into a glass carafe.
I stood at the kitchen island, a pair of stainless steel tongs in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other, currently engaged in a high stakes negotiation with a batch of hash browns.
I glanced toward the empty corner of the ceiling, catching the invisible 'lens' with a pointed look.
"Look at this," I whispered, keeping my voice low so it wouldn't carry up the stairs. "If there were a Nobel Prize for morning culinary arts, I'd be delivering my acceptance speech right now."
I sprinkled a pinch of smoked paprika over the potatoes, watching the red dust settle into the hot oil.
"Something smells good," a soft voice floated through the air.
I turned my head. Wanda was leaning against the wooden frame of the kitchen doorway. She was wearing the grey sweatpants from yesterday and a simple white tank top, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.
Her auburn hair was piled into a messy knot at the top of her head, a few stray strands framing her face. She looked sleepy and entirely too beautiful for a Thursday morning.
"Do I look heroic while I cook?" I asked with a smile."The apron adds a certain rugged charm, doesn't it?"
Wanda let out a low laugh, pushing off the doorframe and walking slowly into the kitchen.
"You look..." she paused, tilting her head as she came to stand beside me, her shoulder brushing against my arm. "You look the best. The most handsome chef in Westview, certainly."
"Only Westview?" I feigned offense, turning the heat down on the stove. "I was aiming for the tri-state area, at least."
"You must conquer the kitchen first before you conquer the state," she teased, rising up on her tiptoes to peer over the edge of the skillet. "What is the main course?"
"Omelets," I announced, gesturing to the glass bowl filled with whipped eggs, diced bell peppers and sharp cheddar.
I picked up a small tasting spoon, dipped it into the raw pepper and onion mixture I had sautéing in a smaller pan and held it out toward her.
"Test this for me," I instructed. "I need to know if the salt ratio is correct. Too much and we dehydrate. Too little and it tastes like sadness."
Wanda looked at the spoon, then looked up at my eyes, her brow furrowing slightly. "Why do you not test it yourself? You are the one orchestrating the flavors."
I lowered the spoon slightly, an unexpected tightness gripping the center of my chest. The smell of the sizzling onions and the simple question triggered a memory.
[Flashback]
I was standing in my mother's kitchen, still vibrating from the adrenaline of a chaotic night in the ER. I was twenty four, half dead from exhaustion and absolutely starving.
The pot of butter chicken was bubbling on the stove, smelling like everything good in the world. I reached for a spoon, my hand shaking slightly as I aimed for the rich gravy.
Whack.
My mother's wooden spoon intercepted my wrist with surgical speed.
"Patience, Aryan!" she barked, pointing the spoon at my chest like a weapon. "If you taste the food before it is finished, you will never get married. The gods don't give happiness to men who can't wait for their dinner."
I grinned at her, rubbing my wrist. "I'm a doctor, Mom. I'm pretty sure my prospects are fine regardless of the gravy."
[Back to reality]
"My mom," I started, my voice dropping a fraction of a decibel. I stared at the wooden handle of the spatula, the memory playing behind my eyes in vivid color. "She had these... superstitions. She used to smack my hand with a wooden spoon if I tried to taste the food while it was still cooking in the main pot."
I let out a small laugh, swirling the spatula in the pan.
"She used to say, 'Aryan, if you taste the food directly from the cooking pot, you will curse your fate. You will never get married. You will wander the house alone, eating cold soup for the rest of your days.'"
I looked up, trying to keep the smile on my face, but I knew the grief was leaking into my eyes. I could feel the jagged edge of the loss and the memory of a family that didn't exist in this universe, a mother whose face was slowly blurring in my mind.
Wanda's playful demeanor vanished instantly. Her green eyes softened, filling with a warmth.
She stepped into my space, closing the physical distance between us until her chest pressed against my arm. She reached up, her hands cupping my jaw, her thumbs brushing gently over my cheekbones.
"Aryan," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the sudden ache in my chest.
She looked deep into my eyes, her gaze anchoring.
"You do not need to worry about never getting married, or wandering a house alone," she said softly, a loving smile curving her lips.
"No?" I asked, my voice barely a rasp.
"No," she affirmed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Because you already have me. You are already caught. The curse is broken."
The tightness in my chest dissolved, washing away under the absolute certainty in her voice. I let out a long breath, wrapping my free arm around her waist and pulling her tightly against me.
"I guess I am," I murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "Captured by the Lemon Queen herself. I can live with that fate."
I held her for a long moment, letting the warmth of her body ground me in the present.
"Now," I said, clearing my throat and pulling back just enough to look at her, my usual grin firmly back in place. "The food is ready. And if we let it burn while we stand here being sickeningly romantic, we really will be eating cold soup."
Wanda laughed, her hands slipping down to rest on my chest. "Then we must eat."
I swiftly poured the eggs, folded the omelets with a practiced flick of the wrist and slid them onto two ceramic plates, arranging the crispy potatoes on the side.
"Dining table," I announced, handing her two glasses of orange juice. "Your chariot awaits."
We migrated to the dining room, the morning sun casting bright squares of light across the oak table. I set the plates down, pulling her chair out for her before taking the seat right next to hers.
Before I could even pick up my fork, a loud sound echoed from the sliding glass door leading to the patio.
MEOOOOW.
MEOOOOW.
Wanda paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked toward the glass.
The one eyed cat we had baptized yesterday was sitting on his hind legs, pressing his front paws against the glass, glaring at us with his single yellow eye. He let out another long yowl that sounded like a rusty chainsaw.
MEOOOOW.
"He is hungry," Wanda noted, a smile touching her lips.
"He is a tyrant," I corrected, dropping my napkin onto the table. "I provide him with premium shelter, high grade flea eradication and a designated executive washroom and this is the gratitude I receive. Incessant screaming."
"He is a growing boy," Wanda defended.
"He's a menace," I grumbled, standing up and walking back toward the kitchen.
I grabbed the bag of dry cat food I had manifested… I mean, purchased yesterday, along with a small ceramic bowl. I walked to the patio door, sliding it open just enough to step out.