#confuundo

A burner phone buzzes to life on the table. The letters KP flash across the screen, followed by a scroll of text: Running late. Be home by ten. Frank reads it, but doesn’t answer. The kitchen is hot. Steam building, fogging the windows, and his neck is slick with sweat. He was trying to keep the warmth inside, as if to prove a point he knew there was no point in. Even when he cooked for Maria, he’d eventually give in, closing the windows at the last second so that he might fool her. He never did. The chill always remained, a ghost in the room that prickled her skin and made her laugh. “Oh, too hot?” she’d tease, her nose crinkling when she smiled. Those words echo in his hear and Frank sighs.

“Yeah,” he concedes to the empty air. “Yeah, too hot.”

It’s 8:45pm. A large pot of water simmers over the stove. A box of off-brand pasta sits, open and waiting, beside it. It’s accompanied by a jar of red sauce, a garlic clove in a pocket of tin foil, and all the spices he could find in Karen’s sparse cabinets. 

Frank reaches over the sink to force the window open. Biting cold air whistles through the screen, soothing the heat built beneath his skin. Relief escapes in the form of a sigh and for a brief moment Frank closes his eyes and lets the breeze roll over him in soft gusts. Outside, the city bursts to life. Car horns and front doors, a jogger’s frantic gait, wheels on asphalt. A gurgle from the pot breaks his brief bliss. Frank lowers the heat and pours in the box of rigatoni. Karen’s favorite- he remembers her ordering it more than once during late night take-out-and-case-files marathons. He found a wooden spoon and gently stirred the boiling water. 

And then he moves to the garlic, the foil still warm from the oven. He crushes it with the edge of a knife, then sorts through the spice bottles to pick what he needs. Oregano. Onion powder. 

In a plastic shopping bag on the table waits a tube of Pillsbury rolls and a tub of parmasean cheese. He finds a baking sheet in a rather unorganized cupboard and tin foil on top of the fridge and sets about setting up the rolls. 

It’s 9:20pm and he drains the pasta, though not with the finesse Maria had always had. Some of the hot water splashes up, leaving red spots on his hand. He hisses, swears under his breath, fights not to drop the whole pot. After he sets it down he runs the water as cold as he can get it, sticks both hands under the stream. Remembers how Maria used to splash water on her face, her neck, and does the same. He uses a paper towel to dry his skin and checks the clock: 9:32.

Frank makes quick work of mixing the sauce and garlic and spices. He keeps the stove on a low simmer to keep the food warm for Karen. Takes out the rolls just before they burn. Finds butter in the fridge that he leaves in its wrapper because he can’t find a butter dish anywhere. And without candle sticks he settles for a round candle Foggy had given Karen as a birthday gift last year. It was some kind of summer scent, something fruity and light that Karen had meant to use but never got around to. He lights it with a match from his own pocket and slides it to the center of the table. 

At 9:53, he scoops spoonfuls of pasta onto two plates. Adds a roll to each, sets them on either end of Karen’s tiny kitchen table. Out of habit, he shuts the window, trapping the remaining heat inside. At 9:56, the front door opens.

“Woah,” he hears Karen say, and when she comes into the kitchen she hasn’t taken off her coat. “Is it just me, or is cold in here-” She stops mid-sentence, lingers in the doorway. Frank stuffs his hands in the pocket of his jeans, suddenly embarrassed. He bites his lip, shrugs his shoulders. 

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he mumbles. A soft smile spreads across Karen’s face.