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I felt a little restless. The prospect of my potential conversation with Greid later—assuming he felt up for it—was making the rest of the day stretch out endlessly. I glanced at the clock on the oven display. Only eight-thirty. I still had two hours before I had to be at work to get the bar ready for the brunch rush at eleven.
I could go and work out, but I’d already showered and couldn’t be bothered to do it again. Wandering back over to the fridge, I tugged it open and stared at the contents. I’d found a recipe for chicken stew I wanted to try making, because it didn’t seem too daunting, it just required some chopping and throwing everything into a slow cooker.
Maybe I could make it for our dinner later. I’d been wanting to learn how to cook more, and this felt like a good way to learn as well as pass the time before work.
Did Greid have a slow cooker? I went around the kitchen quietly opening cabinets, finding a rice cooker and stand mixer that both looked barely used. Could I just put it in the oven at a low temperature? I didn’t really want to deviate from the recipe when I knew literally nothing about cooking.
Maybe he had one in his “Room of Shame”. We’d gone through about a quarter of the boxes last weekend and made a pile of things to donate. It had taken way longer than it should have, because Greid tended to get distracted while going through the stuff, studying each item carefully, most of the time telling me he couldn’t even remember buying them, and enthusiastically saying he actually wanted to use some of it. He’d snuck several boxes down to his room. I’d pretended not to notice.
Creeping back into the hall, I went upstairs to the third floor and into the room. I’d ended up trying to organise the remaining boxes while Greid had fiddled and played with each item he unpacked, so at least the mountain was slightly more organised this time.
God, some of this stuff was ridiculous. A hat with sunglasses built in. Gardening shears with a cup attached so you could enjoy a beverage while trimming hedges. I knew for a fact that Greid didn’t trim his hedges.
After about ten minutes of searching, I finally found a slow cooker. At first, it looked pretty normal—nothing weird attached to it and no obvious wild claims on the box. Then I noticed it came with an attachment that turned it into a juicer. For hot juice. Who the hell enjoyed hot juice?
Carrying it downstairs, I washed out the removable ceramic bowl and pulled out my phone to bring up the recipe. A quick scan of the freezer and terribly neglected vegetable crisper in the fridge revealed that we did actually have most of the ingredients. The carrots were a little floppy, but still orange. They’d be fine, right?
I started chopping vegetables as the package of chicken defrosted in the microwave. The repetitive task was kind of soothing, the house quiet except for the very faint snores I could hear coming from Greid’s room down the hall.
By the time everything was in the slow cooker and I’d washed up the knife and chopping board, I had just enough time to grab another coffee from Deep Brew before starting work. But after tugging on my coat by the front door, I doubled back to the kitchen and found a piece of paper and a pen in the junk drawer.
Not ready to eat yet! I wrote, because I knew that Greid would zero in on a pot of cooking food like a bloodhound the moment he woke up. DO NOT EAT RAW CHICKEN, GREID.
With a smile, I left it in front of the slow cooker and turned to leave for work. The day was crisp and cool as I stepped outside, the sun hazy and bright in a pale blue sky as autumn melted into winter. As I waved at the two old demiurgus on their front stoop, my gut fizzed with excitement at the thought of getting to see Christmas in the city. Did demiurgus celebrate it? Would everyone on the street put up twinkling lights and decorate their windows and front steps?
I was working with Gavin and a quiet, no-nonsense demiurgus called Kayr for the brunch shift. Kayr didn’t talk much—he wasn’t rude, he was just painstakingly efficient and refused to stand idle when there was a lull between customers. I made an effort to help him take all the glasses off the shelves to give them a thorough clean, but I could tell that I was just getting in his way and he’d prefer to do it himself. In the end, I went and stood with Gavin once the brunch rush died down, and we chatted casually between customers.
I liked Gavin, but it always made me a little nervous to talk to him, because there was a lot of stuff—regular human stuff—that I should’ve known about. Like going to high school, football games, some big human hedge fund investor who’d recently been exposed for tax evasion.
I managed to navigate the conversations fairly well with vague answers about my childhood—“I grew up way out in the country, in a tiny little town”—and by confidently saying I wasn’t interested in sports or celebrity gossip, the latter of which was a big, fat lie.
My shift passed painfully slowly, and when I finally got out, I saw I’d had a text from Greid a few hours ago. Several texts, in fact.
what are you making?? he’d sent. A minute later, he’d followed it with, it smells really good. It woke me up
why can’t I eat it now???
The chicken can’t be THAT raw can it?
how long does it need to be in there before I can eat it?
I snorted, typing out a quick message. It’s for dinner! Can’t eat it yet.
He didn’t reply, so I shoved my phone back in my coat pocket and made my way to Deep Brew to get Greid a coffee. When I got home, the house was completely quiet, so I figured Greid was working. After shedding my coat and boots, I made my way upstairs to deliver his drink.
“Greid?” I knocked on the workshop door, hearing silence behind it. “I got you coffee.”
There was no reply. Cracking open the door, I peeked in and saw it was empty. I checked the Room of Shame before making my way back downstairs. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room. Knocking softly on his bedroom door, I called, “Greid?”
No answer. Frowning, I stepped back and looked around. His car had been parked out front, but I supposed he could’ve walked somewhere or got the subway. He hadn’t mentioned going out today though, and I knew Greid left the house as little as possible.
Then I noticed the door to the basement was partially open and the light was on down there. Was he working out? It would’ve been the first time since I moved in.
I didn’t want to just barge in on him in case he got self-conscious, so I pulled open the door a little more and called down, “Greid? I got you coffee. I’ll leave it in the kitchen.”
Nothing. I could hear that the TV wasn’t on, and there was no whirring of equipment or pounding feet on the treadmill. He didn’t even answer me, which was a little weird. Maybe he had headphones in. Or the E-B-Phones, I thought as my mouth twitched. Although, they didn’t really seem safe to use while exercising. Or literally ever.
I retreated to the kitchen, setting his coffee down before checking on my stew. Greid had been right—it did smell really good already. My mouth stretched into a proud grin as I gave it a stir, pleased to see the gravy thickening as the recipe had promised, and clamped the lid back on.
