Name of my Love | on hold

eighteen

Spellbound

I slump against the dining chair, facing him. Seeing him partially enervated, the uncertainty on my face becomes perceptible and I take an overwrought breath. I unveil the served plate of spicy grilled shrimps, taking off the steel lid.

A slight glint of his doe-eyes reappears while he sniffs the savour of the cooked food. He has been working for the past few hours continuously, he has no idea what was happening outside his room. It's very stubborn of him to stay focused on his work for hours when he desires to. Something I'm trying to inculcate in my life as well.

Nobody realizes that the life of an artist is just as grueling as any average working man's. And working in the field of art demands creativity, imagination and a thousand pounds of passion, leaving you drained at the end of the day. Working with him made me realize the small details, small things and little pieces that make up the whole, otherwise I'm a big picture person.

"Sky," he calls, snapping me out into reality and when I blink my eyes at him - recovering - he continues in a deep voice, "earth to Sky."

"Ah, hm?"

Why am I spacing out?

My gut burns with agitation resurfacing. Even though I made sure to follow as stated in the recipe, cautiously mixed the ingredients of the marinade and marinated the skewered shrimps for 30 minutes sharp, I still think I've messed it up a little. Are the shrimps supposed to look a tad bit burnt and little too much crispy? The heat was significantly intense perhaps. I bite back the urge to ask him, internally wishing it is not just as bad as it looks.

He cast his eyes on the dish but doesn't let out any hints to show me if I did make a fool of myself once again. My back itches with clamminess seeing his paper-blank face. I think I overcooked the shrimps. God, why.

He lifts one of the skewer sticks and positions it between his fingers. My lips ajar, lower jaw threatening to drop on the floor while watching him travel the piece into his mouth. The suspense in the atmosphere makes my throat dry, especially seeing him chew it dramatically from my side.

"How's it?"

He immediately starts coughing. I quickly pass him the glass of water and he groggily gulps down more than half the glass in one breath.

Shit. "Sorry, my fault."

"No, the hiccups arrived the wrong time," he excuses - not to make me feel like the worst cook ever born on this planet which I believe is painfully true. But surprisingly, he further says, "it's good. If you don't believe me why don't you try yourself?"

I deniably poke the slim bamboo sticks, enrolling the slaughtered sea-creatures. Pretty brutal. Then munch on the heated shrimp which looks the closest to the pictures shown in internet. First, the authentic taste of spices assimilate in my mouth, then slowly, the unique taste of the white, soft and mildly porous core beneath the crispy-red layer outside registers into my taste buds. It's not that bad. It's outstandingly cooked when compared the butterfingers of an untalented being like me. I let out a satisfied, shallow groan.

"I told you," he snickers, grinning amusingly, "you're improving in your skills."

At least he indirectly admitted I was a bad cook.

"Thanks."

Something clicks inside his head and he eventually takes out his phone from his pant's pocket, half-smirking and keeps it upright at his face, "say cheese."

"What's up? You're acting weird," I intercept the view of the camera lens with my palms covering my face. He giggles.

"Come on, Sky, just one pic, I promise."