Onions, garlic, smoked salmon and parsley.

"Hallo? Sind Sie hier? 8.47."
"Sorry… Karte, bitte."

I place everything along with a cup of rice on the counter. I trust the recipe, but mascarpone in risotto is a surprise. "Chop the onion finely, so it almost melts," is somewhere in the back of my head.

You can always take poorly chopped onions out of the pan and chop them finer. Written words are similar. You can have another look, rearrange and cut them out. Each word should tell; and onions should be the same size.

“Oh, really?” she laughs. She is gorgeous.

I take the onion out of the water, cut the top off and start to peel. Water helps, with garlic too. I think of my dreams of writing a book, but I am missing that beautiful idea which would turn into something powerful. My life was not tragic enough, and my heart was never truly broken.

"But you should totally do it," she says. I like her eyes.

Do not wash your risotto rice. Water washes away the starch and the creamy texture along with it. I wish life would be so simple, but the world and its people are on the brink of collapse. Sometimes I feel the weight upon my shoulders, but then realise I have no responsibility; I am no giant. I only stand on the shoulders of giants.

“You are so serious,” she adds and pours more wine.

Deglazing your pan with wine is optional, but smells nice. Brilliant things are always simple, and simple is hard to do. I have often read my emails again and again, almost as if I am editing my own piece of art. Simple and precise; each word should tell. You are what you write.

“I like to talk to you,” she says. I touch her back and step aside.

Cut in half alongside the root. Slice, slice, slice, slice. Chop, chop, chop. Fingers along the blade. Chop, chop, chop. Fingers along the blade. Chop, chop, chop. Check. Chop, chop. Check again. Chop.

The air becomes heavier. I feel tears building up. Is it the air or is it the weight of the world? I look away, but it does not help. I look at her, but cannot see. I look into myself and see my life passing.

“It tastes great,” she'd say. Onions were perfectly chopped.

I clean up and get ready for bed.

This was my first published short story. If you liked it, do me a favour and press ♡ button, drop a comment or send me anonymous feedback.

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EightyFour

Onions