Mise en Place

I used to make up long speeches to you after you left. Hoping that it'll be a temporary goodbye and I won't have to actually say it to your face. I'd tuck them between prep and plating, like they were part of the mise en place. Like if I organized my grief the way I organized my station, I wouldn’t have to choke on it anymore.

You never really left the kitchen. You stayed in the sizzle of garlic, in the scorch marks on my apron, in the salt I overused when I couldn't taste anything but you. I used to talk to you during the lull between lunch and dinner, low whispers to the dish pit everything I was too scared to say. The walls have heard me break more times than you ever did, yet you're still stuck on the back of my throat.

I started labeling the memories, like containers on the top shelf.

You: diced dorky laughter, one frozen night, best served warm.

Me: burned fingertips and a mouth that couldn't open in time.

I put them in place. Like a good cook does. Mise en place. 

Everything where it belongs. 

Everything except you.

I used to be terrified I’d never hear your stupid jokes again. Now your nonexistent echo makes me flinch more than the ticket printer. I can’t even plate something nice without thinking about how you used to kiss my knuckles like I was something tender.

I used to smoke a lot, and it came back to me like muscle memory. I light one between slow hours, flick ash into the asphalt. I don’t even pretend it helps. I just hope the smoke will fill the spots you used to.

Sometimes I get high taking amphetamines, pretending it'll help me stop thinking about you for a moment or even forget you. It only makes it worse. I ended up comparing it to how you taste on my tongue down to the smallest part of the forehead kiss.

I used to let memories hurt me by replaying the look of your eyes in my quiet times. You were autumn in a glance when we met, now it burns like amber flames, and I still want to stare at it like I’m starving.

I make risotto every Wednesday. I pretend it’s just a habit, part of the rhythm. But it’s not. I don't think it is, maybe it's hope. Because I catch myself still cooking for two, leave a fork by the edge of the station like you might walk through and ask for “just a bite.” You always said I used too much cheese. Maybe that’s why I can’t find any now.

The rest of the team calls me the egoistical one, the focused one. Truth is, I’m just counting -- every chopped onion, every plated dish, every fucking second since you left. Mise en place is the only thing that makes sense anymore. I prep my emotions like I prep my line.

Anger: diced fine.

Grief: folded delicately into sauce.

Longing: always within reach.

I used to almost breakdown during shifts, but I can’t afford to fall apart during service anymore, so I do it in prep. That’s where all the real bleeding happens anyway.

Time’s broken now. My rusted bracelet watch died last Sunday -- or was it Monday? -- and I haven’t noticed. Life moves in orders, not hours. Hunger, not heartbeats.

And still, every night, I check my station.

Salt, check. 

Oil, check. 

Memories of you, check.

Everything in its place.