The Unsaid Thing

Bending at the knees to save her back, Sonia retrieves the large pasta pot from the bottom shelf of the kitchen island and sets it beside the sink. Using the telescopic faucet, she fills the pot with water while quietly humming the Flintstones jingle. Then, hefting the pot, she carefully sets it on the burner. She grabs the large blue sea salt cylinder and dumps a flow of salt into the water.

“Wow! That’s a lot of salt,” Monty blurts, having just entered the kitchen.

Startled, Sonia looks up and sets the salt down. “Oh, you’re back. It’s for the pasta water.”

“Yeah, I thought we could spend some time together. About the salt, I never put that much.”

“Well, you never complained about my pasta before, so you must like it.”

“Fair, fair,” says Monty, smiling.

Sensing the end of the conversation, Sonia reclaims the salt.

“But it’s still a lot of salt,” adds Monty.

The salt finds its way back on the counter. Sonia takes a deep breath and turns the dial and waits for the familiar click-click-snap of the flame.

“What are you making?” asks Monty.

“What does it look like?”

“Pasta, I know that, but what kind?”

“Just a simple tomato sauce.”

Monty walks around the island and lifts the lid of the pasta pot and stares at the water. Sonia immediately mirrors his movement, slipping to the far side to keep the wide block of granite between them as she reaches for a bottle of wine.

“I’m going to help you,” he finally says.

“If you must, then open this bottle of red,” Sonia says. She slides the bottle toward his side of the counter, using the gesture as an excuse to retreat two steps back toward the pantry with the salt container.

“Good idea,” says Monty while pulling a corkscrew from the drawer and stepping around the corner toward her.

Before he can close the distance, Sonia glides further along the counter to the sink, keeping her eyes fixed on her hands.

Monty picks up the bottle and inspects the label turning the bottle left and right. “Pinot Noir? That’s not for pasta.”

“I thought you liked that one? Plus it’s already room temp.”

“Not for pasta, oh sweetie!” Monty says with gusto, leaving for the wine cellar in the basement.

Sonia snatches the wet rag from the bottom of the kitchen sink and starts rubbing at a stain — the one that has not disappeared in weeks. Seeing that her vigorous rubbing has no more effect this time, with a sigh, she throws the rag back into the sink. She moves to the dishwasher, opens it, grabs six plates at once and moves towards the cupboard.

“Babe! What are you doing? Let’s start reducing that sauce now, or it won’t be ready for tonight,” Monty says while brandishing a Beaujolais like the Olympic Flame.

“Right,” she replies while setting the plates in the cupboard. On her way to the refrigerator Sonia kicks up the dishwasher door.

Monty stares.

Sonia buries her head in the refrigerator and says emphatically, “We have onions, garlic, green peppers and a pack of red minced meat.” Not waiting for an answer she takes them and plops them on the counter. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ll take care of the meat, you do the veggies.”

“Fine.”

“What? You want to do the meat? You know I’m good at it.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Monty sets out to open the wine. With great fanfare, he pours himself a glass, sloshes it around, takes a sip and slurps it. “Ha! That’s a good wine.”

Sonia takes the knife from the knife block, tests its sharpness while looking at Monty.

“I love you too,” says Monty, winking. “Here, have a glass.”

Sonia grips the glass and almost finishes it, then turns the knife’s attention to the white onions on the chopping block.

“Oh my God, Sonia, you are hopeless. You just sliced the onion and you are already crying.”

“You surely know me, Monty.”

“I know. Do the meat. It will be good. Anyway I’ve got my special technique for cutting it in smaller cubes.”

“No, I’ll do the little onion cubes. You’ll see.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Sonia says while setting the knife down and gripping the side of the counter. “That I can cut onions.”