Amaranthine and Other Stories by Erik Hofstatter Page A

remembered why he still fried the onion. Because Magda told him so. “Every delicious dish starts with fried onions. That's the base,” she explained. Her Polish creations often made him salivate. Sean did not argue with her culinary reasoning. Now he felt like tossing the brown mishmash into the bin. The wok trembled in his hands. No, frying the onion was part of the routine. He must stick to the routine.
    Since the turbulent separation, Sean devoured an identical meal every night. Chicken breast with brown rice. If he felt brave enough, he hazarded a little honey or mustard to enrich the dish. Not tonight. He stared into the wok, stirring the mixture absentmindedly. How long was the chicken cooking? Five minutes? Ten? Without a clock in the kitchenette, he could not tell. He did not care, either. Food poisoning was the least of his worries. Magda had left him. That's what mattered. Sean poked the chicken with a wooden spoon. The texture seemed rubbery.
Maybe a minute or two longer
, he thought. Drops of burning oil landed on his knuckles, a result of over-vigorous stirring. “Cock!” he shouted out loud, shaking his hand through the air. The rice boiled. He removed the plastic sack with a fork, letting the excess water drip into the sink. Satisfied, he emptied the contents onto his plate. Sean gave the meat a final stir and scraped it on top of his rice.
    The chicken was undercooked. Sean chewed the tasteless grub from side to side in his mouth, resisting the urge to spit it out.
You must keep your strength up. It's about survival. The pain will fade. You must eat
, he encouraged himself. Sean split the next piece in half with his fork. The shades of pink were undeniable. He carried on munching. It was all routine, even the undercooked meat. Every night he attempted to prepare the chicken thoroughly, every night he failed. “You're a failure!” Magda said to him. More than once. His reply remained the same. “Only in your eyes.”
    “Only in your eyes,” he muttered again. She often smirked. He hated that fucking smirk. It irritated him more than words. The contempt on her lips. The superiority in her eyes. Her slyness had frightened him from the beginning. It also served as a magnet. Magda's intelligence was an attractive quality he could not resist.
    “Get out of my fucking head!” he roared.
    He needed a distraction. He needed Eli. He could always talk to Eli. Eli possessed the ability to vanquish these unwanted emotions. After dinner, Sean poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and collapsed into his Chesterfield chair. The chair was his throne—his sanctuary. It provided a sense of invincibility.
    When he presided in his chair, even Magda could not challenge his authority. He sniffed the leather before leaning towards the aquarium—tapping a nail on the glass and addressing the floating thing within.
    “I love you, Eli. You're my last friend on this doomed planet. How would I cope without you?”
    The segmented body of the creature appeared lifeless. It nestled at the bottom of the tank, white and flat. He marvelled at the great length. Eli measured at least three and a half meters. Sean read that they developed at a rapid pace. Certain articles even claimed 1cm growth every hour. When Sean gave birth to him in the tub, Eli was already at an impressive size. He saluted his offspring and gulped down the amber liquid. Sean relaxed in his seat and reminisced back to that glorious day. His eyes lingered over the empty spaces she once occupied. Suddenly, he felt dirty. From the angry sex no doubt. Magda suggested it. “Fancy some break up sex? No strings attached?” she said. Always the temptress. She enjoyed torturing him, toying with his feelings until the bitter end. He nodded, intrigued by the lustful proposition.
     
    Sean slipped his pants down, already hard. Magda stepped towards him, raising her skirt. The absence of underwear suggested she planned this in advance—even anticipating his answer.