Shopping done. Veg hacked, skin still on and boiled to death.
The broken extractor coughed in apology to the switch. It was too cold out to open the window. Steam filled the kitchen. Claustrophobic and close, too close to feel anything but heat.
Simmering; the saucepan rattles with the bubbling condensate. White knuckles gripped the handle testing the weight. He raises the heat. The blue flame licks around the base of the pan. The rattle intensifies.
‘You listening?’ Love gone? She smiles at the illuminated phone.
‘How is he?’ He lifts the lid bathing in the swirl of carrot and coriander; just a hint of liquified salt.
‘Is it done?’
‘I think so.’ The insidious rattle returns.
‘Good.’ Her finger traces the name on the phone.
‘Bowls.’ He waits as she stretches across the to the cupboard. He strangles the handle and lifts the pan from the stove. Lid shielding his heart. He turns ready to serve.