“How's your salad?”
Cassie shrugged and resumed her food-fiddling. “I told you I wasn’t hungry.”
Henry rolled his eyes and took a huge bite from his bread. “Jesus, try to lighten up. You’re glooming up the place big time.”
His cell phone rang; he excused himself from the table and chose one of the many dark corners of the bistro to take his call. Cassie didn’t even look up from her plate.
It was a hole in the wall, the bistro was; one whose existence they never noticed before. It was nameless; no signage graced its façade. It seemed like it was newly opened, yet felt like it’s been open forever. The moment Cassie stepped in, she oddly felt suspended in time; Henry scoffed at her and blamed it on hunger.
“Everything alright, miss?”
Cassie found the bistro’s chef at her side. He was tall and wiry, and had piercing dark eyes. He spoke slowly: calmly; savoring his words as if they were spices.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be offended,” Cassie said, twiddling with her engagement ring. “It’s not your food. I simply don’t have the appetite.”
Just then, a heady and hypnotic aroma snaked its way from the kitchen. The sweet and savory scent surrounded Cassie; it overwhelmed and embraced her like a thing alive.
“What is that?”
“It’s my creation,” the chef said. “My special dish.”
Cassie was overcome; her previously unresponsive stomach now rumbled furiously at the dish’s exhilarating aroma. Before she could stop herself, the words spilled from her salivating mouth: “May I order it?”
“No,” said the chef. “I’m afraid it’s not included in the menu.”
“What’s up?” Henry asked, eyeing both as he reseated himself. Cassie explained how her hunger was revived by the chef’s dish which, unfortunately, wasn’t on the menu.
Henry frowned. “I don’t smell anything particularly fascinating, but then again I think I’m about to have a cold.” He turned to the chef. “Please, she hasn’t eaten well for weeks. Can’t you break the rules this once and make that dish for her?”
The chef remained unmoved.
“I’ll pay you double your most expensive plate,” Henry insisted, then asked Cassie: “You’re really sure you want this dish?”
“I’ll die if I could have it,” Cassie replied.
The chef stirred. “Truly? You would die to have it?”
Cassie stared at the chef whose eyes have lit up. He asked his question in such an earnest tone that she replied in kind: “Yes.”
“Then,” the chef smiled. “You may have it with my compliments.”
Minutes later, the chef returned with the special dish and served it with great care. He watched gravely as Cassie took her first bite and left quietly as she closed her eyes, sighing contentedly. The dish was everything she had hoped for; she ate every last bite.
*******
The next evening came a knock on Cassie’s door. Through the peephole, she saw the chef from the bistro. She opened the door and inquired why he was there.
“I’m here to take your life,” he said, so calmly that he could have just as well said he was there to deliver pizza.
Cassie was flabbergasted. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t funny,” she sputtered.
“It’s not supposed to be,” The chef said, without menace. “You weren’t kidding last night when you said you’d die for my dish. You were quite serious.”
“Are you crazy?” Cassie said wildly. “It’s just an expression. I didn’t literally mean I’d die for it. You know how absurd that sounds, murdering me for eating your food?”
“I’m not here to murder you,” the chef said simply. “You said you’d die if you could have my dish. You had it so now I’m here to take what you owe me. I’m here for your life.”
Cassie faced the chef squarely to reason with him, but her words trailed off as she found herself staring straight into his eyes. In them she saw a tunnel of what seemed like unending darkness winding into an utterly black void, a space of soundless nothingness.
She felt herself getting light-headed; getting sucked in. She was feeling herself disappear; to be one with the void.
Cassie fought to pull herself back, to persuade him to let her live.
“Look,” she said quickly, struggling desperately to stay lucid. “I did say that I would die for your dish but we never agreed when. We never agreed when!”
The chef shifted his gaze; Cassie felt the vacuum ease on her slightly.
“True,” he said, thoughtful. “You’re quite right.”
The dark tunnel released Cassie, and, though still shaken, she felt whole again. She stepped back and slammed the door on the chef’s face. Her fingers fumbled to lock it when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
It was the chef. He had an easy smile on him, relaxed and very much at home inside her house.
“So when do you want to die?” He asked her like a friend would ask about lunch.
Cassie grasped for words. A part of her still wanted to flee, but a part much larger surrendered knowing it was pointless.
“I don’t know, honestly… I really would rather not die, at least, not for some time. Can I think about it?”
The chef quietly thought for a moment, then nodded. “But I shall return every evening to claim either your answer or your life.”
Cassie agreed, and the chef took her hand and shook it until she shook his back. Then they parted for the night.
*******
Evenings between the chef and Cassie became routine.
He would come even at the oddest hours of the night and ask either for her life or her chosen date of death. Cassie would give persuasive arguments and earnest pleas to go on living; the chef, being reasonable, would always leave sans her answer or her life. After a while, the whole bit between them became as commonplace as an evening nightcap or the brushing of teeth.
Both he and Cassie believed promises to be promises, and both took their agreement as earnestly as two hamsters on a wheel: one relishing the repetitive exercise; the other a voluntary captive. Cassie scheduled her life around the chef’s nightly visit. During especially hectic evenings when a party was to take place at her house, for example, she would arrange for the chef to come at a certain time and he would oblige without question.
A month passed.
Then two.
Finally, one morning, the chef decided he had had his fill. It was no longer fair, he thought. Cassie had long digested and excreted the food he had prepared for her; it was time for her to surrender her life or give him an answer as to when.
He went by her house that night and found her house dark and silent, with shades drawn and envelopes spilling from the mail box.
The chef wasn’t pleased.
He went back the next evening to find the house dark and quiet still. For several nights, he returned to the abandoned house hoping Cassie had returned.
When a week passed with no Cassie to answer the door, he began to feel betrayed, finally grasping that she had breached their agreement. He had believed her to be an honorable person; but now thoughts of her in various scenarios, happy at her escape, filled his imagination. In his mind, he saw her surfing on the waves in sunny Hawaii; scaling mountains in Tibet and communing with monks; quaffing Guinness in a rowdy pub in Ireland while singing dirges with the drunks. She could be anywhere. Alone. Maybe not. It didn’t matter where she was or with whom: Cassie had betrayed him.
Bitterly disappointed, the chef wrote out a note and slid it under her door. It said he will no longer wait; he will come back the next evening to take what she long owed him.
That evening came and he again found a darkened house with shades still drawn. Barely expecting a response, he knocked. The door carefully opened. Cassie stood before him and greeted him as if she had never left.
“I’m sorry for being remiss,” She said. “I needed time to get my life together.”
The chef stared at Cassie sternly. She had much changed: she was thinner; her eyes cradled by sunken sockets; her skin sallow as over-ripe turnips. She did not look like she got back from a sunny surfing vacation; she didn’t appear to have been scaling mountains or quaffing pints of Irish brew.
Cassie nodded for the chef to enter. She said: “I followed Henry to Chicago. He had a business meeting there and I went to surprise him. It was the week of our seventh year anniversary -- seven years of happy unmarried bliss, he would say. I got to Chicago with much difficulty along the way: flight was canceled, luggage was lost and all that shit; but I got there. I got there, alright.”
She looked at the solemn chef who stood before her.
“And you know… when I got there …he wasn’t on business. He wasn’t on business at all.”
Cassie closed her eyes and remembered the smell of roses in his hotel room, it wafted in the air; she recalled how easily the concierge had given her Henry’s room key after she had told him she was his fiancée. He didn’t even ask for her name; gave her the key without question, as if expecting her. Then he apologized for their broken ice machine.
“I know sir wanted crushed ice but I can only manage ice cubes,” he said penitently. “But I did ask the kitchen to include an ice pick for his tray. I’m so sorry. The Jim Beam is on us.”
When she got to the room, the drink tray was there with everything the concierge promised. Henry did like his whiskey diluted from crushed ice. He said whiskey burned his throat and cubes melted too slowly. He always finished his drink quickly and took his time chewing the ice, crunching it with his teeth. She remembered teasing him once that he seemed to enjoy the ice more than the whiskey. He laughed and kissed her, his mouth still cold from the ice. They teased each other a lot then; how things have changed.
She opened the bottle of Jim Beam and poured herself a drink. She liked it neat. As she sipped, she noticed the red petals scattered on the luxurious sheets of his hotel bed.
How romantic, she thought.
Cassie followed the trail of rose petals; it led to the bathroom.
She saw Henry in the tub entwined with a woman. Their embrace and moans were passionate; too passionate for just a one night stand. The lavish hotel room and the roses… no whore or fling merited that. And the unquestioning manner of the concierge… he probably thought she was the woman with Henry. They were both blond and pale; the only difference is that he loved this blond and no longer her.
Cassie opened her eyes and wiped the tear that trailed down her cheek. She looked at the chef earnestly and nodded.
“Anyway, I read your note. Here I am. I’m ready to die.”
The chef eyed her pensively then shook his head slowly. “I can’t take your life now.”
“Why not?” Cassie asked. “I’m ready to die. I want to die.”
She should have known Henry had been cheating on her; and shouldn’t have followed him to Chicago. She should have left the hotel the moment she saw that blond bitch in his arms; but she stayed.
More tears trailed down her face as she remembered how she returned to the bathroom to find the bitch straddling Henry in the tub. The ice pick felt strong and sure as it penetrated flesh and muscle. Cassie could remember the woman’s ragged breaths; lung collapsed, she fell on top of Henry, struggling to get away. She remembered how Henry screamed like a girl as she stabbed his woman until she laid still and heavy on top of the man Cassie loved. Henry embraced the dead woman tightly, not out of grief but to hide himself from his erstwhile lover. She remembered how he pleaded with her to let him live; he told her the woman meant nothing, that it was her he loved.
And that was when she found her opening: she stabbed him in the mouth as he was about to utter “love”.
She had tried so hard to believe in it, love. She held on to Henry and cheated death to earn time for him to love her again. She held on to love to keep from dying.
The chef stared sadly at the shattered girl; he gently touched the wetness on her cheek.
“I can’t kill you now. You’re already dead.”
He would have kept his promise; had she named the date before the windy city, he would have taken her life despite what she had done. He was honorable but she no longer had what she owed him. She watched helplessly as he walked the path from her house. From her.
Now, with the ruin in store for her, Cassie wondered how she can go on with life.
(Saturday, July 07, 2007)
Revised on July 7, 2015 especially for Friday Frights. Proofread by Bronne Dytoc.