Write A Story Rich In Description
I closed my eyes and inhaled. The blended odors of tomatoes, garlic and herbs were the most obvious, but didn't completely upstage the lingering traces of baking bread, nor the crisp scents of torn, sliced and chopped vegetables. Warm steam billowed from the pasta pot; my cue to add the noodles. I leaned back against the counter, sighing happily. The warm air over the stove drifting through the cool air from the window. All his favorites were ready. He would especially enjoy a good home-cooked meal after so many late nights at work.
I was so ready to hear the door open, I jumped when the phone rang. His ringtone; my heart fell. Was something wrong? I fumbled the phone before managing to answer it. He didn't hear my voice shake because he started talking as soon as I answered. I heard what he said, understood every word, but couldn't make sense of them as a group. Something, something, "won't be home" something "we both knew this was coming" something something "Pick up my things while you're out." I babbled something, held back tears when he asked me to, then listened to the line go dead. I couldn't look at my phone. I certainly couldn't put it down anywhere in the kitchen, not anymore. I leaned into the front room and tossed it toward the couch. I washed my hands, cried, then washed my face. The cold water dripped as I leaned back against the counter. I looked at the red-hot burners under the pasta and under the sauce. I looked at my good kitchen knife in the dish drainer. I took good care of that knife; it was always sharp. Hands shaking, I picked up the knife. I held it up to the light, and looked at my reflection in the broad blade.
"Fuck this," I said, and dropped the knife into the block. "I will be damned if this good cooking goes to waste!" And if I was a little shrill, at least there was no one there to hear it. As I knew it would be, the food was outstanding.