Page 14 of Way Down Deep

Friday

12.39am

Sorry about the radio silence, stranger.

The boy’s grandmother came over to watch him so I could deal with some legal crap to do with paternity and the boy’s citizenship options and on and on. The only upside is that I can now casually toss out the phrase “met with my solicitor today” and feel a little British about it.

When I got back, the boy’s aunt was here—his mom’s sister. I’ve only met her once before, so as much as I wanted to pull out my phone and check all those precious messages I’d felt buzzing against my butt way back when I was leaving this morning, etiquette compelled me to be a half-decent host.

There was a lot to talk about. Heavy shit. Once they left and the boy was in bed, I had to just sit by the window and have a drink and turn it all around in my head, get it filed away and set aside before I finally read your texts.

Last meal on earth, you say? A classic conundrum.

I love food. I’m a good cook. I have about ten things I can cook really well, and I think that’s all you need.

If my mom was still here, I’d want her to cook my last meal, but failing that I’d do it myself. (Not because I’m amazing or anything, just because I’ll miss cooking once I’m dead.)

I’d pick out every ingredient and probably marinate something overnight. Steak, likely. Really good steak, grilled rare. Asparagus if it’s in season. Corn on the cob. Garlic potatoes with loads of butter. I’d invite you to join me, but I wouldn’t be upset if you couldn’t come. I’d understand.

Now here’s your next question: What question do you most wish I’d ask you? And what would your answer be?

1.33am

I just knew you’d be a good cook. I could sense it. Though I had no idea it would torture me so much to hear it. Here I am at one in the morning, bleary-eyed from the doze I’d just drifted into, and instead of going right back to sleep I’m drooling over your food.

Oh, I can almost taste the butter and garlic on the potatoes. I can nearly hear the sizzle of the meat. Maybe I can even see you doing it—though of course most of your features are blurred out, like an innocent passerby on a crime-prevention programme.

Also I’m now furious at my fridge for only containing microwave meals.

Tomorrow, I swear I’m going to order better food.

Food from a fancy restaurant.

And then when I eat, I’ll pretend you made it.

Even though you’re a sly one, to ask me such a crafty question. Now I will have to reveal double about myself—once in asking, and again in answering. Two for the price of one, as it were. Oh yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice! But as I’m still busy dining on your steak in my head, I will answer. And I’ll even give you a humiliating slice of my inner life, with it:

I would want you to ask me how my day was, like I live in a cheesy sitcom set in the suburbs. You put your coat on a hook and sit down at a huge dining table in an enormous kitchen, and then I tell you all about the cheese and pickle sandwich I had, and the sheets I ordered from Dunhelm, and the article I read online.

But most importantly, I would tell you about the window.

I opened the living room window for the first time in years, and stuck my hand out so I could feel the rain. It was warm, much warmer than I remember it being, and the smell of the air sung inside my body.

Now you go. You tell me what you would want me to ask, and how you would answer.

5.35am

I should really be asleep. The boy wakes up by seven most days, and I only got three hours tonight before his dreams woke him and he needed me.

Well, I say “needed me.” I’m not sure if I really help him much. I just sort of squeeze him and rock us back and forth on his bed until he stops moaning, and when he falls silent but is still breathing fast, I sing to him. Tonight I sang Thunder Road, which is a ridiculous song to sing to a child who’s having night terrors, but I don’t think it made anything worse, so, hey. Parenting.

I’m rambling here, because to be completely honest, your last text left me a little flustered. Not, like, frustrated. Like, weirdly sweaty and warm in the face.

Warm all over.

Warm from the way you describe imagining what I cook.

Warm to think maybe you’ll order something fancy someday and think of me while you eat it.