I take another bite.Another.I lick foam from the pad of my finger slowly to buy seconds and then pick up the wine and let it breathe against my lip while I count to five.I take a small sip, just enough to wet.I won’t take the chance of being plied with alcohol.
When my plate is empty, I don’t slide it forward.I let it sit.Chef doesn’t pounce with the next course.He rises.
I can feel him thinking.I see him eyeing the second candle.
“You always did pace yourself,” he says at last.“I appreciated that.”
“You trained me to,” I say.It comes out like a confession.I shove it back down my throat with another small sip of wine.
He collects my plate.
His hand trembles a fraction.
Interesting.
He’s not as in control as he wants me to think.
He’s just a man with a plan and five candles—one of which isn’t a candle.
He returns and strikes a match with a hiss, touches the flame to candle two.The wax liquefies, and the wick turns black.
One.
Two.
Three to go.
I look away and think about Belinda.Think about her sweet laugh, her cheeseball empire, about her piano scales marching up and down the staff, about how she’s a little girl who loves shopping and sleepovers but can play Debussy as smoothly as any virtuoso pianist.
I twist the edge of my napkin with my thumb and forefinger.
Chef returns with course three.
It’s braised flank steak—sobrebarriga.He’s cut it on the diagonal into slices, fanned like a hand of cards.
“Sobrebarriga with a reduction of malbec kissed with panela,” he says.“Served with yucca purée, charred baby carrots, and heart of palm salad with lime zest.”
The reduction is perfect, like a satin ribbon.Chef was always good with any kind of sauce, especially reductions.He never hurried them.Let them take the time they needed to reduce to such a perfect gloss.The yucca purée is smooth enough to see a reflection in.
The entire presentation is beautiful.
Obscenely beautiful.
Any Michelin restaurant would be proud to serve this dish.
As far as last meals go, I couldn’t ask for better.
My stomach flips at the thought.
Yes, it is my last meal.
But it’s worth it to have saved Belinda.She’s younger than I am.She has a chance.
I’m already ruined.
I set my hands on either side of the plate, trying to ground myself.Chef pours something red.
When I pick up the knife, it feels lighter than the one against my thigh.
