by Nikki Chase
“Swiss cows, huh?” He smirks. He doesn't actually say anything insulting, but his eyes mock me.
“Yes, Swiss cows. All kinds of Swiss cattle. Poor creatures. They have sensitive hearing.” I smile sweetly.
I may have said something dumb, but the smartest thing to do, now that it's done, is to stand by my words. At least he doesn't seem angry anymore, and he can't see me blushing in the dim light of the restaurant.
“But this didn't come from a Swiss cow?” He points at the steak on the table.
“No.”
“He probably wasn't deaf, then.” He’s toying with me.
“No.” I grit my teeth and force a smile.
“Ah, lucky American cow. Probably lived a good life filled with many different kinds of wonderful sounds.”
“I guess.”
“Too bad it died just to turn into undercooked steak,” he says.
There it is. I knew an attack was coming.
“Again, I apologize, Sir. I’ll take that back to the kitchen and send out a rare steak for you.”
“Good. While you're here, I should also let you know that there's too much black pepper in the sauce.”
Thank you! I want to exclaim. I’ve been trying to tell the owner for months the same thing, but he disagrees. He says I'm just supposed to follow the recipe that's already been provided.
The Local has been using the same recipes for decades. I wasn't hired to get creative.
I keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve said enough to this rude stranger.
“It's the famous original sauce here at The Local, Sir. I’m afraid I can't change that for you,” I say.
“That's too bad. That's good meat right there, but it's lathered in so much sauce and seasoning I can't taste it.”
Another thing that has been on my mind for a long time! I could see us bitching over poor handling of good ingredients, if he wasn't such an asshole. Too bad.
I give the man a smile, then pick up the plate and take it with me as I walk away. It's time to disappear into the kitchen and hopefully never see him again.
Alice
Do you know what hunger feels like?
Not the kind of hunger where you’ve already wolfed down a Big Mac and a large fries but you still have room for another one.
Not the kind of hunger where you’ve had a salad because you’re on a diet but you really crave some deep-fried junk.
Not even the kind of hunger where you didn’t have time to get lunch, so now your stomach rumbles loudly in the middle of a meeting, while you count the minutes until you can leave the office.
I’m talking about real hunger.
Like when I had to spend recess at the library so the other kids wouldn’t notice me not eating.
Or like when I had to eat the Halloween candy bars one bite at a time so they’d last longer.
Or like when I only had a few pieces of crackers, but I gave all of them to my little sister and went straight to sleep so I wouldn’t feel the hunger pangs.
I started working as soon as someone would hire me, for as many hours as it was legal.
By the time I was fourteen, I was already juggling school and the maximum eighteen hours per week of work. Sometimes, my boss let me work more and paid me the extra in cash.
My first job was as a waitress in a family restaurant. It was heaven. I could eat as much as I wanted during my breaks, and I could bring leftovers home for Emily, my sister. Suddenly, we didn’t have to depend on our mom to consistently put food on the table—something she was never any good at.
Then, I started working in the kitchen, learning the basics of food preparation, like peeling and cutting vegetables. I immediately fell in love.
Cooking, to me, has always been an almost spiritual thing. It’s an amazing thing, to get paid to create things that feed and nourish people.
I’ve worked as a chef for years now, and it still feels special when someone eats something I’ve prepared. It feels like I’m giving them a piece of myself.
It’s a great way to meditate, too.
I’ve had numerous struggles throughout my life, many of them of the financial kind. I was always stressed out, growing up.
But when I’m in the kitchen, it’s like I forget everything else and focus only on turning the raw ingredients in front of me into something edible—delicious, even, if I may say so myself. It’s like nothing else matters except for the present.
You can’t make good food without giving it your all. No one batch is the same, after all. It’s not just about the recipe. It’s a craft. Some even call it an art.
After high school, all my peers went off to college. I already knew where my passion lay, so it was easy to say no to tertiary education. I continued working in kitchens, learning by doing—and getting paid the whole time.
Unlike those suckers who ended up with huge debts after college, I had years of relevant work experience, savings, and a stable income by the time I reached my early twenties.
It was nice to have the resources to help Emily whenever she needed me. I could at least give her a place to stay and as much food as she wanted to eat so she never had to worry about, you know, staying alive.
She doesn’t need me much these days, though. She has her own kick-ass job, for which she moved from San Francisco to Seattle. She’s also married now, and her husband does a good job taking care of her.
It’s lonely now that I’m on my own, but I’m happy for Emily. At first, I didn’t approve of Cole, her now-husband, but I’ve grown fond of him. Whatever makes Emily happy, makes me happy.
I have to say, though, that seeing her so in love makes me a little envious. I’ve never had a man look at me the way Cole looks at her. I want someone to love and cherish, too, damn it.
Instead, all I have is one ex-boyfriend, although he’s been sending me flowers to ask for my forgiveness. I wonder if I should give him a second chance.
I mean, I’m not getting any younger here. I’m officially in my thirties already.
If this keeps up, I’ll end up dying alone in a tiny studio apartment, with random body parts having been nibbled off by my many cats before the cops could find my body. Serves me right for giving everything to my work, I guess.
But hey, at least I’m doing well, career-wise. I’ve actually appeared in some interviews for the food section of some small foodie magazines and websites, too.
I used to work at one of those restaurants that actually like creative chefs. But then I had to get involved in some workplace drama—involving the previously mentioned ex-boyfriend—and quit that awesome job.
Still, I’m now the head chef of one of the most popular mid-range restaurants in San Francisco, The Local. I regularly cook for people whose names regularly appear in the paper, like Emily’s rich in-laws.
It’s okay. I’ll find some other job soon, where I can have some freedom to shape the menu.
God, it would be so nice if I had the money to open my own restaurant, but that’s not going to happen—not unless I save up forever, which means I’ll be, like, seventy, when I have enough money.
It’s okay. Take a deep breath.
I’m doing fine for thirty-one. It’s normal to examine my life at this age.
I have a roof over my head and food on my table. I have a job that both pays the bills and is relevant to my field of expertise. I have a lot more than many other millennials.
I’m doing okay, and things are looking up.
I even have a date tomorrow night with Fred. Maybe we’ll manage to work things out. Fingers crossed!
Alice
“I’m glad you could make it,” Fred says as soon as I walk into the coffee shop.
“Yeah. It’s been a long time.” I give him a nervous smile. I take a seat across the table from him.
Fred and I met at work. We had an on-again, off-again relationship for as long as I can remember. Every time we broke up, I always told myself never to go back to him again. Then, like some masochistic moron, I went
back to him, every time.
I hope this time will be different, though.
We’ve never been separated for this long before. It’s been five months so far.
Maybe Fred has had some time to reflect and change. Maybe he really wants to make it work now.
He has a laptop with him and he’s already drunk half the contents of his transparent plastic cup. I wonder how long he’s been here.
He’s wearing a lightweight black crewneck T-shirt and a pair of jeans, looking casual as can be. I guess we’re not going anywhere nice this afternoon.
I’m glad I picked a versatile little black dress to wear. I won’t look out of place no matter where we go. Along the spectrum of outfits that range from frumpy to trying too hard, this dress lies at just the right place.
“You look good.” He shoots me the sweet smile that used to send my heart pounding. It doesn't have the same effect on me anymore, I realize with a little surprise.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling even as my own lack of emotions confounds me. “Thanks for the compliment, and for the flowers.”
“What flowers?”
“The roses that you sent me last week for my birthday.”
“Oh, right. Happy birthday.” There's something strange with his smile. It reminds me of when we were just on the verge of breaking up. He's hiding something.
“It wasn't you, was it? You weren't the one who sent me the flowers.”
“I could've done that.” He shrugs.
“Yeah, but you didn't. That's what matters. God, I feel like such an idiot right now. I’m going home.” I get up, letting the metal chair legs drag on the floor noisily in my rush.
Why did I even bother coming?
I thought I was done with him, until he started sending me cute little bouquets of flowers, with the biggest one being the one he sent me for my birthday. I thought he was finally changing.
He was never an attentive boyfriend. I had to remind him to buy me a cake whenever my birthday came around. Then he’d show up with the sorriest excuse of a cake that he bought from the gas station at the last minute.
He put the minimum effort necessary to keep the relationship going. It was never bad enough to end things altogether, but it was also never good enough for me to imagine a happy future with him.
Then he cheated on me with a colleague.
He was the manager of the restaurant at the time and we all had to keep working together, which made things really awkward for everyone involved.
That’s why I got the job at The Local and moved away from that whole toxic situation.
To be honest, a small part of me was relieved that he’d done something so permanently damaging to our relationship. I thought that was exactly what we needed to finally end it.
But with Emily gone, and me having to adjust to living on my own again, and the flowers…
Now, I realize agreeing to see Fred was a mistake. He doesn’t care about me; he never has. He only gives a shit whenever my dissatisfaction affects him.
I’m heading toward the exit, when a familiar hand wraps around my wrist. Fred has gotten up from his seat and grabbed me, stopping me from walking away.
“Let’s sit down and talk this out like adults,” he says under his breath.
“I’m done talking with you, Fred.”
“You’re angry over some flowers? Jesus, Alice, you’re being childish right now. If you want some flowers, I’ll go and buy some for you, okay? Just sit down, will you? Let’s not make a scene.”
He’s right. People have turned their heads to steal glances at us. I take a deep breath and sit back down.
“This is the problem with you,” Fred says as he removes his hand from my wrist and takes his seat. “You don’t tell me what you want. If you want something, just tell me. It’s not like I can’t afford to buy you flowers. I can’t read your mind. This is such typical girl behavior, it’s not even funny.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, just ask him for what I want. I know how that would go. It would be the birthday cake thing all over again.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me. You know I hate that,” Fred says with barely concealed anger. He keeps his voice low to avoid attracting any attention, but there’s a threat behind his words.
“What do you want, Fred?” I sigh with exhaustion. All the fights we’ve had are coming back now, weighing me down all at once. I don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore.
“What do I want? That’s all you have to say to me after five months of not seeing me?” He sweeps his unruly brown hair back with one hand like he often does when he’s upset. He takes a deep breath, then looks straight into my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget you, Alice, but I can’t.”
“Well, try harder.” I give him a stern look.
“I miss you. I don’t know how to live without you.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you fucked that girl then.”
“Don’t you miss me? At all?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“Not really,” I say honestly. Not until I got those flowers, which turned out to be from someone else.
“How could you be so heartless? What we had for five years, that means nothing to you?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” His accusation hits me where it hurts. Can’t he see how much effort I’ve already put into our relationship?
“See? You still care. I can see it in your eyes,” he says pleadingly. “If you’d just put your pride aside, I’m sure we can work things out.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Fred. You’re going to have to let me go.” The coffee shop feels crowded, almost claustrophobic. I need to get out of here, but I know Fred would just grab my hand again, and people would gawk at us.
“Can’t you see I’m suffering without you? I know what I did was wrong. I’ve apologized so many times. What more do you want? Some flowers? Let’s walk out of here and get some flowers, then.” His voice gets louder and higher, although he keeps it in check so the people at the surrounding tables can’t hear.
“It’s not about the flowers, Fred. You just don’t get it.”
“Tell me so I get it, then. I’m going crazy, Alice. I might just kill myself.”
Shit. Not this again.
“Don’t do that, Fred. Please don’t do that.”
This is not the first time Fred has said something like this. Fred has used his suicide threats to stop me from leaving, more times than I can count.
I finally told Emily about it after our last break-up, even though I was embarrassed that a dirty tactic like that had worked to make me stick around for five years.
Emily told me not to cave if he ever tries that again, and to call the cops or his family so they can handle it instead.
It sounds so simple, but I was always too close to the problem to see the solution. Well, I’ve spent some time distancing myself from the problem, and now I see what has to be done. I know I can’t just give in. Not again.
“I’m serious this time, Alice. I know I’m a bad person,” Fred says. He slaps himself in the face, making a loud smacking sound. It happens so quickly that by the time people turn around to look, he’s already sitting normally, albeit with one red cheek. “Please. I’m so sorry. Hit me. Come on. Let’s go somewhere so you can hit me as much as you want without people looking.”
“I don’t want to hit you, Fred.”
“What do you want, then? What can I do so you’ll give me just one more chance?”
I stay quiet, looking around us to think of a good way to escape the situation without drawing people’s attention.
“What are you thinking about? Are you thinking about how pathetic I am? It’s you, Alice. It’s because of you. I can’t help it. I’m too crazy about you. You made me this way. Please give me another chance. I’ll do better, I promise.”
I swallow, my heart beating faster. He’s getting more unhinged. What can I do to stop him from melting down?
In the past, I used to back down at this poi
nt and agree to get back together with him.
But I’ve made so much progress these past few months. I don’t want to start all over again when we inevitably break up.
“I gave you many chances in the five years we were together, Fred,” I softly remind him.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head repeatedly. “You already like someone else, don’t you? Who’s this guy who gave you the flowers, huh? If I see that motherfucker…” Fred balls his hand up into a fist and raises it, like he’s ready to punch someone.
Throughout our relationship, Fred has always been overly jealous and insecure.
Once, I wandered into a new neighborhood for a couple of hours and didn’t realize that my phone had died. By the time I got home and turned it back on, I had sixteen missed calls from Fred and twenty-three text messages.
We proceeded to have a tearful hour-long argument over the phone, in which he accused me of having met someone else in the produce aisle, and of deliberately turning off my phone so he wouldn’t interrupt.
Yeah, I can’t deal with that anymore. Not for another minute.
“This is not about anyone else, Fred. This is about you and me. And we’re done.” I stare at him as I get up this time. “If you try to stop me, I’ll scream and people will get you off me. I’ll call the cops if I have to.”
“Fuck, Alice. How could you? You’re being so mean and selfish right now.”
I look him right in the eye and speak slowly so he hears every word. “I don’t care what you think of me, Fred.”
With that, I turn around and walk out of the café.
As soon as the door closes behind me, my feet feel light. It’s like I’ve left behind a big weight at the table. A big, Fred-shaped weight.
All this time, I was afraid of being alone. But what’s so bad about being alone? It’s way better than staying in a miserable relationship.
I grab my phone and fire off a quick text to Fred’s sister, Wendy. We’ve never been close and I don’t really like her, but I have her number anyway just because Fred and I were together for so long.