This is not say that I don't love you but now I have waved you off to London for the evening and I have cleaned the kitchen floor, showered and changed, lit the wood-burning stove to counter the chill of the late April air, I am just so happy to be here alone in our yellow kitchen, slicing the buttered and peppered Jersey Royals left over from last night's dinner, chopping a small red onion, snipping chives into confetti, whisking two eggs and sipping cold white wine.
It seems that omelettes were made for solitude, made for one. They slip out of their pans and onto a single plate. They yield to a fork held in one hand. And this one asks to be eaten here and now, after I've sliced it into four and layered it beside a small nest of rocket drizzled with oil, while I'm still standing at the kitchen bar. No etiquette of table or table-mat, no knife, no napkin. Not a single spoken word.
This is not to say that I don't love you but the last slice I thought I'd never eat, the slice too far, the one I thought I'd keep for you when you came home, the snack you might be thinking of when you came through the door, the one I dressed with a spear of chive just for you, has also gone. This was always meant to be a meal for one.
Hungry Writing Prompt
Write about being away from someone you love.