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"Dearest, Emily. Please, come read poems with me on the grass. I'll put flowers in your hair, and we will play chess, make love, and have cute babies with freckles," Maya teases, giving me her signature nudge so I'll react quickly instead of gawking at her for minutes. "He…" I pause and lower my eyes. "Mike doesn't play chess. He says it's much too sophisticated for him," I say in a tone that lets her know that I don't appreciate her teasing. But Maya misinterprets and becomes sympathetic. She knows how much I love chess. I even have a broken board in my room and pieces that she scrounged together for me from a dumpster.
She also knows that Mike prefers it when I wear loose fitting clothes, the type that make me look like a farm girl, whereas I would rather wear sheath dresses, a classy appearance that doesn't hide my figure. I can't really blame Mike for wanting to see me as a farm girl. He grew up on a ranch with his family before he moved to town to start up his solo business of supplying vegetables and spices to our restaurant. Also, I started wearing the scent of roses only after I met him. I always stay still so I don't ruin the euphoric moment for him; I can never admit that it's tiring to let him sniff me in as much as he wants.
It's the right thing to be enthusiastic in his company.
But then again, there is no stress. In the 20 years of my life, I haven't needed to pressure myself over things.
Maya releases a sigh and holds my hand. I widen my eyes at her and spiral in laughter, slapping her hands away. "Jeez, I was only just joking. Alright now, I have to go." I take off my apron as I speak.
I am a young woman who has to live by routine. I give no room for alterations. Even though I know Maya wants me to stay back and rant about my feelings, I will never do that becauseI have never done that!
Suddenly, Maya jerks and scrambles to pick up a knife. I am searching for a place to shove my apron so she can hang it up for me later.
"Shit. He approaches," she curses under her breath.
I follow her eyes and discover the reason that jolted her out of her sympathetic state. I notice Sebastian coming our way.
***
Emily, we need extra salad! The vegans, Emily. Come on! Chop, chop. No time to daydream." Sebastian's call pulls me out of my reverie, to a world filled with the scent of spices, to a place where the fire roars under simmering pans, where men and women dash to the sound of adingfrom the ovens. Fretting around, visiting pots and stoves. Then there is the hefty man, Sebastian, the chef de cuisine, with a hat slanting above his bald head.
"I am off duty." I hold Sebastian's stare and point at the clock. "7 o'clock."
He is only my supervisor, but I am quite sure that even he can comprehend my routine with his eyes closed.
"Then get the fuck out of here already. You are taking up space, Emily Smithson!" he bellows.
Have I grown fat?
"Here, let me make the salad. Help me with the fucking crostini for table 8. I can't fucking seem to get it right and don't need Sebastian on my tail. He looks bloody angry today," Maya is saying. Her forehead is bright with worry. Her face is flushed from the heat, a sheen of sweat settles on her nose and nape. It's hard to tell that she is the same girl I just shared a moment of friendship with. Nowall she thinks about is saving her job. The same thing we all think about when the supervisor appears in the kitchen. For a moment, I consider skipping my night with Mike for the first time and simply stick around the scene unfolding before me.
I am thinking about...
Then I imagine the outcome.
An upset in the routine?
I enjoy the days when I have to be extra industrious in the kitchen. Half the time I am working as a chef, I am thinking of my actions in my mind, hoping that my responses will be on par with the reaction of a typical modern-day woman. It takes either a note or a day of hard work to distract myself from worrying over my simplicity.
"Oh, I see now. You are too distracted to hear me out. Come on, Emily, I read the note too. It's always the same. Pleeeease, stayyy. Your best friend is dying. Fuck, I can't breathe. I have been Sebastianed!" Maya pretends to choke while holding her neck, then she sticks her tongue out and rolls her pupils inward, where only the whites of her eyes remain.
I slap a hand to my face and groan. I hear a chuckle in a corner, but I don't bother to look.Everyone grows elf ears in here.
Maya winks at me and resumes cutting the carrots, then she appraises my appearance with a sly smile now. I love the way herface sparkles with mischief while her hands keep busy on the chopping board.
The playfulness, the spontaneous reaction to events, the boldness—we should be very similar. Why is it so difficult to switch?
"Oh, I am quite sure he will want to ravish you tonight." When she says it like that, my response is a blush.
It's understandable; I should be a lady in love.
"How long have you known each other? Two years now? And you still act like teenagers hiding under the covers, waiting for the alcohol in your system to take effect before you make your moves. Just keep fucking him every fucking chance you get. You only get to live once, Emily and—"
“Jesus, Maya." I hush her before she can finish. My eyes dart around the room. I imagine ears widening and straining toward us.
I don't like to share my thoughts; I like my privacy. She can rant as she pleases when we are behind closed doors but not when we are surrounded by a horde of activity.
"You are much too loud, Maya," I grit, leaning closer so only she can hear my nervousness. She picks up a bowl, and pours in mustard, maple syrup, and almond extract. (It will become a disaster). Absent-minded, she picks up tomato juice. While she chatters, I pull it out of her hands and quickly switch it with lemon juice. Sometimes I wonder how she has kept her job.
