WOW IM SO SORRY ITS ONLY BEEN 3 YEARS ITS FINE_
Cooking. This wasn't just a hobby but a lifestyle. Cooking is the light that helps me through the hardships, through the loneliness.
I grew up without anyone, so the idea of needing someone now was irrelevant. I could easily make it on my own. As long as I could cook, that is.
Day after day, I stood in front of a stove using the repetitive task of cooking to relax myself. At times, I would make idle conversation with a customer, nothing too extravagant.
Sometimes, people would try and pry. They'd ask me open ended questions in hope that I might break my shell little by little. However, as soon as they resolved to prying, I would quickly reach into my arsenal of cynicism and sarcasm to push them even further away.
And once they were far from me in spirit, they would reach out one more time, with one last sentence of compassion. They would bring up the unthinkable, the unspeakable.
They'd look up at me with caring eyes and they'd let the poisonous words drip effortlessly from their tongue. Unknowing of the heart retching pain they caused.
"Chase, you need to move on. That's what your parents would have wanted for you."
That simple sentence would send my mind into a spiral, sending me farther into myself, causing me to aloof myself even farther. How could they know what my parents wanted for me? I can't even know what my parents would want. What makes them special enough to know?
My replies would normally vary from ignoring them to kicking them out of my kitchen. But now, it seems I have found a new habit, a very uncomfortable habit.
More and more I'd find myself stomping down a familiar path towards two doe eyes that I'd become accustomed to. I would come and sit, motionless, under her orange tree. Listening, listening to Angela talk and sing as cheerfully as ever as she worked on her farm.
The reason I always come back is because was because she never pried. She never spoke the unthinkable. She always seemed to accept me, one way or another. She saw nothing wrong when I isolated myself when I cooked.
Soon I found myself visiting the brown-eyed farmer on a regular basis. She never seemed to mind, probably because I'd favor her with my extra ingredients and leftovers from lunch. She, in return, would allow me to stay as long as needed, and she still never pried.
Almost as if she never cared. She never asked about my feelings, or my dreams. She only talked about herself. I found myself in a mass confusion. I was beginning to get furious at this woman. Why didn't she pry? Why didn't she speak the unthinkable? Was I not worth her efforts?
I was tail spinning, going nowhere good fast. I began isolating myself once more, even from Angela. I watched her from a distance as she would come into the bar, day after day, reaching out to me with her eyes, because she dared not speak to me.
Being the smart woman she is, she realized her efforts of reaching me were futile and soon gave up. It had been weeks since I'd last seen the farmer and the next time I saw her she had a new friend, a new person to talk to.
I had been replaced.