Date Night

The smell of food filled the air of his tiny kitchen.

Usually, Benton Cooke’s stomach would be growling right about now. But it wasn’t. He put that down to nerves; Norma would be here in half an hour. He needed to get his skate on. He gazed at the crowded countertop, overloaded with the evening’s preparations.

He’d chopped potatoes into thick slices. He’d peeled carrots and cut them in half lengthwise. He’d sliced a red onion into quarters. He’d trimmed the root ends of the Brussels sprouts. He’d prepped a mix of his favourite dried herbs: basil, oregano, rosemary, thyme, and marjoram. He’d minced a garlic clove. And, of course, he’d gotten the meat ready.

Benton smiled. It was all prepared. Everything was perfect. And it had to be, too, because Norma Forde was perfect. This date had to go right; it had to. He couldn’t afford a single thing not to turn out as he’d planned. He turned the oven dial to preheat it to 180 degrees Celsius and placed a baking sheet inside to heat up. Meanwhile, Benton brought a large pot of water to boil and cooked the potatoes for five minutes. He kept half a cup of the water for the gravy later.

The clock tick-tocked forward. Twenty-five minutes until Norma arrived. The steam from the boiled potatoes swam around the stove until the fan sucked it up.

His heart hammered faster. Sweat trickled down his hairline. He had to pick up the pace. He didn’t want her to arrive whilst he was still cooking. He hobbled over to the cupboard and brought out a large bowl. Inside, he tossed the vegetables with two tablespoons of olive oil to give them a nice coat. He removed the preheated oven tray and arranged the vegetables across the sheet. He then sprinkled pinches of salt and pepper and a teaspoon of his herbs over the mix and put the tray back into the oven.

Time was ticking by. Twenty minutes. In the oven, the vegetables began to roast.

Benton could already picture Norma’s face when she saw what he’d done. How could she not fall for him after that? Trying to woo the fairer sex wasn’t easy. You had to take risks. You had to be willing to stake it all. You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if you didn’t. Half measures never won any hearts. Whilst the vegetables roasted, he made the sauce. He mixed a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar with two teaspoons of oil. He added the garlic, the remaining herbs, two teaspoons of oil, dijon mustard, and some black pepper. Half of this, he rubbed over the meat, which he left in a shallow dish to marinate. He mixed the rest with half a teaspoon of vegetable bouillon and the potato water and kept it as a gravy mix.

Fifteen minutes. The heady aroma of cooking food wafted throughout the small apartment. The meat marinated in its sauce, droplets of the marinade dribbling down the sides.

It was time for the big guns. The perfume of perfect food would be pluming out Benton’s front door exactly when Norma arrived. He’d orchestrated it all down to the second. Benton brought out a small, non-stick cast-iron frying pan and warmed it over high heat. He shook off the meat from the marinade and seared it for two minutes on each side.

Ten minutes. The meat sizzled in the pan, hissing and spitting. The edges began to brown.

The meat looked cooked to perfection. Norma was going to love it, Benton had no doubt. He removed it and allowed it to rest on a plate, its juices pooling around it. To the frying pan, Benton added the gravy mixture. He simmered it until it thickened to make delicious gravy.

Five minutes. The sauce became more viscous until it moved with lethargy.

Time felt like it was moving both very fast and very slow. Almost all thought had vacated Benton’s brain. He worked on autopilot, getting the meal ready. He sliced the meat, which fell off the bone like butter, and plated it with the roast vegetables and gravy on the side. He arranged the plates on the candlelit table with a bottle of red wine – which he’d left open to breathe. He placed two glasses by the plates to await the claret.

His phone rang out in the hall.

Benton jumped, lost his balance, and fell but caught the countertop before he hit the tiles. Norma should be here any second now. Who could it be? He couldn’t get wrapped up in a phone conversation while waiting for the perfect date. He didn’t think he could hold a regular conversation at this point, anyway. God, would he make a fool out of himself? No. No. Once he’d had a glass of wine, he’d relax, and he could be himself. He let the phone ring out and exhaled through his nose.

Benton’s answering machine beeped and took the message. ‘Benton, it’s Norma. Listen, I, ah— I-I’m sorry to have left this so last minute, but I won’t be coming over for our date. I don’t think this going to work out. You’re a great guy and all, and I appreciate your understanding of my dietary concerns. But all the big romantic gestures were too much too soon. It’s… kinda scary. I know you’ll find somebody out there. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. But a tiny piece of advice: you have to dip your toe into the romantic waters before you dive on in. Otherwise you scare off the fish. I hope that makes sense. Anyway, I’m sorry again. I’ve gotta go. Good luck. Bye.’

Benton stood there in shock for a minute. He wanted to pick up the phone, dial her back, and tell her she was wrong. But was she? Look at the current situation. Indeed, this was a romantic gesture that was too big. He always did this to himself, fell in love too hard, gave everything, and scared them off. Norma was right. Of course, dipping his toes would be a hell of a lot more complicated now. He watched the candles flickering in the dimmed dining room.

The flames afforded the table the perfect romantic ambience. They lit up the vegetables that Benton had worked so hard on. They highlighted the gravy that he had gotten exactly right. They reflected in the blood-red wine, expensive and exquisite. And they illuminated the meat on the plates, which he had put much of himself into.

He looked down at where his foot used to be and sobbed.

‘Guess I shoulda known a cannibal was going to eat me for breakfast.’

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Sunday, March 3, 2024

Written for the March 2024 #BlogBattle: ‘Perfect’