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There was still plenty of food, dish after dish that'd lined the counters and kitchen island, not to mention what made it to the table itself. Fred had bought the biggest turkey she could find, pulled out the oldest ecipes she could remember, and doubled and tripled all the quantaties in a desperate, determined focus to see everyone fed.
...and to stay busy.
She slipped trough the kitchen now with practiced ease, moving to the music of timers, spinning dishwashers, and the constant rolling of boiling water. The melody pushed, pushed, pushed her towards an increased business, hair pulled back and the heat adding a flush to her skin. Or, maybe, covering up the one that was already there.
Fred skipped a step. Avoiding the cabinet that stuck, always determined to catch fingers and hands. And then intently watched the front left burner, the one that always seemed to run a few degrees hotter and than all the other, for all that it was gas. She needed to watch, Fred told herself, as little sense as that made. She needed to stay focused on the answers she knew, instead of the ones that she didn't.
And after dinner there was wine to pour, the smile of friends as all sorts of toasts were made. And leftovers, tucking them away into the fridge when she finally convinced herself no one was really coming for fifths. And dishes. All sorts of dishes, and despite voices mumbling near her ear about there being people for that sort of thing, Fred did those too. Because that's the way it always went before, but then those sorts of thoughts and excuses weren't really helping anything either.
Finally, there was nothing left to do. No more music to move to. Nothing but your own thoughts to listen to.
It was absolutely ridiculous, but for a moment Fred considered starting all over again, just to make the quiet go away. It was that awful, loud sort of quiet, the ones without answers, and clicks. And Fred was sure there was one last pie to cook, or counter to clean, to make it all just stop.
But it wasn't going to stop, not now. And that was the point.
( Read more... )
...and to stay busy.
She slipped trough the kitchen now with practiced ease, moving to the music of timers, spinning dishwashers, and the constant rolling of boiling water. The melody pushed, pushed, pushed her towards an increased business, hair pulled back and the heat adding a flush to her skin. Or, maybe, covering up the one that was already there.
Fred skipped a step. Avoiding the cabinet that stuck, always determined to catch fingers and hands. And then intently watched the front left burner, the one that always seemed to run a few degrees hotter and than all the other, for all that it was gas. She needed to watch, Fred told herself, as little sense as that made. She needed to stay focused on the answers she knew, instead of the ones that she didn't.
And after dinner there was wine to pour, the smile of friends as all sorts of toasts were made. And leftovers, tucking them away into the fridge when she finally convinced herself no one was really coming for fifths. And dishes. All sorts of dishes, and despite voices mumbling near her ear about there being people for that sort of thing, Fred did those too. Because that's the way it always went before, but then those sorts of thoughts and excuses weren't really helping anything either.
Finally, there was nothing left to do. No more music to move to. Nothing but your own thoughts to listen to.
It was absolutely ridiculous, but for a moment Fred considered starting all over again, just to make the quiet go away. It was that awful, loud sort of quiet, the ones without answers, and clicks. And Fred was sure there was one last pie to cook, or counter to clean, to make it all just stop.
But it wasn't going to stop, not now. And that was the point.
( Read more... )
