Letting Go

The morning light hit his bed sheets and the dust danced in the beams. The room was warm and it smelled vaguely of herbs, maybe a neighbor cooking.

Sometimes it’s ok to lose everything. He’d get downstairs and everything would be gone and it would be fine. He could get a new living room, anything down there, with no problem. Imagine being attached to things when you can replace them. That was the whole point of money. To be able to avoid the attachment. Maybe everything would be gone.

He lingered in bed before going downstairs. The smells were coming from inside the house. Herbs, oil, some kind of fragrant meat.

Meerka was at the stove. She moved with a quick, nervous energy. She froze when she saw him.

-Good morning, Ned, she said.

-You’re up early, he answered. Nothing was missing. Instead there was something new, he thought as he looked at her in her clean t-shit, clearly new, and loose trousers.

-I couldn't sleep past dawn. I went to the corner market. With the cash. She gestured to the pan. I hope you don't mind. I wanted to cook. To say thank you.

Ned walked to the table and sat down.

-It smells good.

-Just eggs, she said, sliding a plate over. With cilantro, green chili, and some spices I found that you had.

She stood back, hands clasped, watching him like he was a judge at a tribunal, or like she was.

Ned took a bite. He sniffed. He wasn’t used to eating at home. An aggressive flavor. Cilantro, chili, she said that. Spicy. He ate another bite. Then another.

He looked at Meerka. She was trembling slightly.

-Hey, this is really good, Ned said.

Meerka blinked. A small smile touched her lips.

-I used to help my mother. Before.

-You could sell this, Ned said. Sure, everyone loves eggs, with some flavor. You could work in a kitchen. A real one.

-A restaurant? She looked at her hands. That’s a nice thought. But I don't have references. Or papers.

-Well, a kitchen. Start small, Ned said. He leaned back in his chair. Do you want to be my cook?

Meerka stared at him.

-Your cook?

-I eat takeout. It’s expensive and it’s garbage. This is better.

He tapped the table.

-I’ll pay you. Whatever’s the going rate for a live-in chef. Can’t be hard to find, we can call a hotel. Or search online. Plus the room, right?

Meerka’s mouth opened slightly.

-What a hotel pays? She asked. And a room. Ned, that’s too much. A room is good. Until I can get my footing again.

-Don't sell yourself short, Ned said. That’s how people stay on the street. You work.

He stood up and carried his plate to the sink.

-If you’re good, you get paid. That’s the deal. He turned back to her. Deal?

She looked at the empty plate then out the window.

It had started raining again and she watched it spit against the window.

-Okay, yes, she said. Deal.