I learned to cook in the Sartori kitchens. Watched Giula, their maid who is more like family, make pasta from scratch when I was seventeen and angry at the world. She never asked questions. Just handed me a knife and told me to chop onions.
I cried for an hour.
Blamed it on the onions.
The bowl is clean. I set it in the drying rack and reach for the spoon.
My side protests. A dull throb that sharpens when I twist wrong.
I ignore it.
The spoon is clean. The mug is clean.
I look around for something else to do.
The counter has crumbs on it. I find a cloth and wipe them away.
The stovetop has a few spots of dried sauce. I scrub those too.
The faucet is dripping. I tighten it.
Still dripping.
I tighten it harder.
The dripping stops.
I stand there for a moment. Hands braced on the counter. Breathing through the pain in my side.
What the fuck am I doing?
I'm washing dishes. In Marina's kitchen. At eleven o'clock at night. While she hides in the bathroom and talks to someone about god knows what.
I hear the bathroom door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Hesitant.
Then she appears in the kitchen doorway.
Her eyes are red.
She stares at me.
I stare back.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Her voice is sharp. Confused. Like she walked into her kitchen and found a stranger rearranging her furniture.
I look down at the cloth in my hand. At the spotless counter. At the dishes drying in the rack.
"Playing soccer," I say.
She blinks.
"What?"
"You asked what I'm doing." I toss the cloth onto the counter. "I'm playing soccer. Obviously."
