03

I don't want to eat it but I will. First, I have to make it.

It's 12:45 at night and I'm warming the stove to cook sweet potatoes. For the past two weeks I've been using food the way I used to use books. I can no longer concentrate long enough to read.

For some reason I think the phone is going to ring and I'm truly disappointed when it doesn't. I stare at it and try to will it to ring. I want him to call. I want him to stop me from eating again. He doesn't know about the eating but he doesn't have to. He just has to say it's okay, that he wants to forgive me. He doesn't even have to forgive me; he just has to want to. Is that too much to ask?

I put myself in his place and I think I can do it. I think I can forgive even if I can't forget. I think I can mentally transport our relationship back before she--me--contaminated our feelings. I think I'd be damn happy to have a woman like me. I'm smart and pretty and goddamnit what's wrong with us?! So what if I fucked up again? So what if I'm not perfect?

The stove is ready and I pour the sweet potatoes from the bag to the cookie sheet. It's barely clean. Why do they make these things so hard to clean? You scrub the hell out of them and they're still caked with grease and oil and food debris. You do it enough times and you're fed up. You hurl it into the trash. Why does it work this way? This is the fourth sheet that I've bought in a year and now this one needs to be put to the curb. But then what? Back to the store, check out some other models, read the bullshit copy they overpay someone to write to make me think that this time, this one, THIS one is going to be different? No matter what I pile on, it'll make it through the heat and the scratching and scraping and it'll be good as new. It's a lie. I know it's a lie. It's never different.

Maybe it's me. In this equation, with the sheet and me, maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe they really do last forever if you ... do something, I don't know what. Maybe I'm treating it all wrong and it's all my fault. How many have I ruined over the years, always thinking this is the way life is when it comes to cookie sheets?

Fuck. Who can I call? Who can I ask? How do I ask such a ridiculous question at almost one a.m.? Oh, yes, hey. Yes, I know it's late. Yes, I know. I'm sorry, but I have a question... Do you have a good relationship with your cookie sheet? Does there always have to be poison? There does? Oh! Okay. Thanks!

I slide the sheet into the hot stove and close the door. I turn on the light to watch. I sit at the table in near-darkness and I wait. The phone rings. It rings twice more before I understand it's not my imagination. I pick it up.

-- Hello?

-- Hey. Sleeping?

-- No. Thinking.

-- About?

-- Guess.

-- Ah.

-- Yeah.

-- And?

-- I'll say it again if you want me to.

-- No. I know.

-- You believe me?

-- I think. Yeah. Yeah, I do.

-- Where--where are you?

-- Insomnia. The basement. You?

-- Kitchen.

-- Thought you'd be reading. Or sleeping.

-- No.

-- Mmm.

-- Do you want to come over?

-- No.

-- Okay. Right.

-- Not tonight.

-- I understand.

-- I thought about it. I was going to come over.

-- Oh?

-- But then something happened and ... I'm not ready.

-- It was bad, wasn't it?

-- Yeah.

-- I'm sorry.

-- I know.

-- Good.

-- Okay. I'm gonna go.

-- You're going home?

-- Yeah. Walking.

-- Can I say something?

-- No.

-- No?

He was quiet, then. In the distance I could hear the thrum coming from the main floor of the restaurant.

-- Things are a little chaotic. Emotionally.

-- Cha--?

-- It's not just you. Lisa called.

-- Oh.

-- Yeah.

-- What did she say?

-- That she was sorry.

-- That she... I thought you were the one that--

-- I was. I did. She called to say that she was sorry for taking so long to let me know ... that everything was cool between us.

-- Oh.

-- Yeah. Weird, huh?

-- Ya--yeah. Mm-hmm.

-- Timing.

-- Yeah. Timing.

-- I have to think.

-- Yeah.

-- I love you.

-- You do?

-- I have to go.

-- Okay. Good night.

-- Bye.

He hung up. I held the phone to my ear a little longer, as if he could come back on the line at any second. I looked over at the stove, the rectangle of light.

The dial tone changed to that horrible off the-hook-sound. Deep inside me I felt something change, something turn. Anger? No. Too peaceful for that. Too quiet. Acceptance. I racked the receiver, softly, and looked back at the stove.

Cook, I thought to myself. And then I said it out loud: Cook, you bastards. Cook.

................................................................
Okay, that's the end of this entry. It ends with the word Cook. Now, I've been getting some questions over and over again so I'm gonna try and nip this in the bud:

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