It was on Friday night. Remember, that cold Friday – last Friday?
Well, it was and I was cooking – spaghetti; I was.
I was cooking because I was supposed to head out in a couple of hours – a friend had just returned from the States and was looking for some entertainment. I was supposed to take him on a tour of some of the hottest clubs I knew; so I was cooking because I hadn’t had anything to eat that day – and alcohol and an empty stomach didn’t exactly mix well.
Not as far as I’m concerned anyways.
I wasn’t excited – I wasn’t dull either. I guess I was apathetic – maybe because I had seen all the spots too many times, or maybe because I am the way I am.
Either way, I was standing over the cooker, feeling steam in my face and looking at the pasta, slowly bubbling as it went from brownish gold to white; staring at the strands as they slowly wilted, succumbing to the superior heat of olive-oily boiling water – and then I suddenly realized – exactly how alone I am.
I felt myself crumble, wilt like so much spaghetti, tears drenching my cheeks before I could stop them – and within moments, they had me hacking and blubbering over the pasta like a typical kid headed to crèche for the first time. It was as though I had kept the feelings all locked up inside; denying their existence and refusing to acknowledge them.
Well, there they were now – out in the open. All over my face, dripping down my cheeks, off my chin and unto my shirtless chest. I slowly sank to the plain-but-severally-stained cement floor of the kitchen, still crying, my own sobs stabbing me in the heart.
It was going to be a long night.