Aromatics

"What time will they be here?", Bev asked.

"20 minutes!"

She nodded and bent her head down, continuing to cut the green onions into perfect little pieces. She wiped off a bead of sweat forming on her brow.

From the living room her husband shouted, "I don't know why you always knock yourself out for them, Bev. She's an ingrate and he's just a idiot. Pure and simple"

She ignored this and continued to concentrate on cutting the vegetables.

"No", she thought to herself. "Not vegetables. Aromatics. Like the man on TV said".

What she wanted to say to him but couldn't was that it wasn't for them. Or for him. It was for her. It was her chance to feel important. A sprig of mint on top of a bowl of homemade coconut sorbet was her version of a Helen Frankenthaler watercolor. A drizzling of a balsamic reduction over a chicken breast was Jackson Pollack on a plate.

He shuffled in his chair and loosened his tie. He checked his watch for the 10th time in the last five minutes. The sound of a knife on a cutting board reverberated from the kitchen. He sighed. He thought about her for a second, the girl from the office. Everything about her was perfect. The way her purple blouse made her breasts look, how her hair caught the sunlight through the window. He told himself to forget about her and focus on Bev. She was his, not some fantasy. He reminded himself that the chopping he heard was being executed by her. It was tangible and comforting when he thought about it.

"How long until they are here?", she shouted again.

He checked his watch again.

"Any minute now".

The chopping stopped.