Author's Note: Sorry for the late posting! RL is getting in the way. I was not meant to home-school my child. Big thank you to teachers, because that is a job I simply could not do.
Also, I know there is no France in the Final Fantasy world. Please either excuse or ignore my French references.
Thank you to all you left comments, reviews, and kudos! They mean a lot! I appreciate the time you take to write them!
Bon Appétit
Shai's week is shaping up to be quite different from the previous two. The dissimilarities begin that morning, shortly after she finishes her breakfast. She is closing the dishwasher when she hears the chimes of the doorbell. Looking through the peephole, she expects to see Dr. Moreau. Instead, she is surprised to see her caller is barely visible in the concave lens. She opens the door to reveal a woman in business dress that makes Moreau's petite shape look hulking by comparison. She introduces herself simply as the general's secretary. She apologizes for the intrusion, hands Shai a sealed envelope, and bids her good day. The elevator doors close behind her before Shai has time to register what has happened or can respond appropriately.
Shutting the door, Shai looks over the envelope. It is blank save for her name in beautifully written script centered on the face. She tears it open along the top fold and pulls out a sheet of paper with an elegant linen finish and the general's letterhead. On one side, in neat print, is the general's schedule for the week. On the other, is a concise note with instructions written in the same script as her name.
From now on, I will leave my bedroom available
for you to clean. My bathroom as well. You will
find my laundry in a hamper beside my dresser.
Additionally, I would be amenable to you
joining me for evening meals.
Shai's initial reaction is to burst out into silent laughter. I knew it, she thinks to herself. I knew it! I jinxed myself last night. Serves me right. I wanted more work and that is exactly what I have been given. The second half of the note? Well, that has produced a physical response similar to seeing him for the first time. Her heart is beating a little faster. Her hands are trembling lightly and she feels like she has enough nervous energy to scour and scrub the entire condo. She will be sitting next to him. At the dining table. Eating. Her anxious mind is blending and shaping scenarios and playing them in front of her like a poorly edited film of slapstick antics. She takes three cleansing breaths deep enough to drop her shoulders a little lower with each exhale. Don't you worry. You got this, girl.
She sits down at the island with the schedule and pulls out her menu for the week. He works Monday through Friday. Four days he'll be home for dinner. Thursday, he has a dinner engagement. Two of the five mornings, he trains. Although she has more specifics to work with than before, there are still some variables left unanswered. Would he prefer to come home to a lighter meal on his heavier work days, like today? Or when he is in the office for half the hours? She hopes he allows for a learning curve this week. Shai knows what choices she would make, but her preferences do not matter. She decides to correspond the simpler meals with the days he is in the dojo. She adjusts the grocery list accordingly, places the schedule in the cookbook, and gets ready to go on her morning errands.
Dressed for a brisk late summer morning, Shai locks the door behind her and presses the down arrow for the elevator. As she waits for it to ascend, she notices, for the first time, a security card reader on the left side of the second elevator. She recalls Moreau telling her that it is an express, but in the short while she has lived here, she has never heard it travel past this floor. She is about to test her ID against the card reader when her elevator arrives. Shai enters an empty car. She no longer stresses about the stares and open gossip directed at her during her elevator rides. She gives the offenders a wide, toothy smile and, more often than not, it diverts their eyes elsewhere or shushes their mouths completely.
She walks to her apartment first to select a few more cookbooks and another novel to read, then goes to the grocery store to place her weekly food order and arrange for it to be delivered in the early afternoon. Tonight's dinner is chicken cordon bleu with buttery rice and a baby green salad, an ambitious dinner, for sure. The sides she is no stranger to, but the chicken is a first. Perhaps a first time recipe is not the wisest choice for the general's first dinner with her, but Shai is confident enough in her cooking skills to believe she can pull it off. The proprietors shout their farewells to Shai as she leaves the store, equating her mutism with being hearing impaired. She doesn't have the heart to correct them, so she grins and bears it.
Shai's plans when she arrives home is to clean the dining area and living area, especially the leg of the living room that is in front of the fireplace. Given that she dusted and vacuumed it less than a week ago, there really isn't any dust to wipe away or dirt particles to suction. But just knowing that he will be home this evening, has Shai in hyper-cleaning mode. Truthfully, she doesn't know what has come over her. General Sephiroth is not her first high profile client, or her wealthiest. He's not even her strangest. That appellation is held by an eccentric little old lady who had Shai wash her hair in front of her bathroom sink so that she may pretend she was at the beauty salon. She'd provide individual voices not only for the imaginary patrons having their hair done, but for Shai as well. No, definitely not her strangest. But he does bear the title of her most intriguing. Yes. Definitely. His eyes, his bearing, his speech, everything about the man captivates all who come in contact with him. No, her hyper-vigilance is simply a matter of her wanting to please her client. He made the effort to learn how to communicate with her. The very least she can do is prove to him that she was worth his time.
Shai finishes off the dining room before taking time for lunch. She shares her time between a ham and Havarti sandwich and crunchy garlic dills with reviewing the instructions for the cordon bleu. Not long after finishing the last bite of pickle, she receives a text from the welcome desk in the lobby; her groceries have arrived. It takes her a good hour to transport the food to the condo and store it away. Afterwards, she hurries to dust and vacuum the living room, determined to have it spotless by four.
When Shai preps for a meal, whether the recipes are new or familiar, the counter surrounding the stove looks like something out of a cooking show. By quarter of six, clear mixing bowls of every size are filled with fresh raspberries, dried cranberries, crumbled feta, diced yellow onion and long grain white rice. Liquid measuring cups are filled with measured amounts of whipping cream and chicken stock. Plates are stacked with halved chicken breasts, ham, and cheese. All she is missing are the chef's hat and apron. She takes the next fifteen minutes to fill two goblets with iced water and put them in the fridge to keep chilled. She sets the table with the general at the head and Shai to his right. She is as thorough in her preparedness as she can be. The only thing she is forgetting is to breathe. She feels her heartbeat ramping up again, a slight tremor in her fingertips. No. She is a professional. She'll be fine once she is busy in the kitchen, doing her job.
The digital clock on the oven can not have read six zero zero for more than twenty seconds before Shai hears the front door open. Despite what the photo ops in newspapers, newsreels, and magazines show, the general does not always wear leather trousers, boots that reach his thighs, SOLDIER suspenders, and a long leather coat with silver pauldrons. When not reviewing troops or involved with their training, he switches up his days. He wears anything from dress trousers and cotton-linen dress shirts to cashmere sweaters over slim-straight jeans to cotton shirts over slim fit trousers. Always black or shades of grey. All immaculate and professionally pressed. Polished dress shoes or chelsea boots. His hair never tied back. Like all aspects of his life, his style is flawless.
Today, he walks in wearing a black v-neck t-shirt pulled taut over his chest and around his arms just enough to make the viewer pause a second or two longer, and a pair of black casual trousers. He has at least a dozen files in manila folders tucked under his arm. He nods at Shai, who is busying herself in the kitchen. She puts the tea towel down on the counter and smiles back at him.
Good evening, general. He gives her a look similar to the one he gave her her first day, after she returned his declination of lunch with a smile; somewhere between puzzlement and humour.
"Good evening."
Dinner will be ready by seven, as you requested. He sets the files down next to his place at the dining table.
"Thank you." Passing by the island, he gives the individual bowls of ingredients a glancing over, then continues on into his bedroom. Shai chalks up his inspection as either curiosity or distrust. Soon, the sounds and smells of dinner waft throughout the kitchen. The cordon bleu is simmering on the stove, the walnuts for the salad are browning in the oven, and Shai is mixing the red wine vinaigrette.
She has finished tossing the salad in the dressing and is placing the individual chicken servings on their plates when she hears his door open. She neatly spoons the rice next to the chicken and garnishes it with parsley. The iced water is already placed at their settings. As he seats himself at the table, Shai sets the cherry wood salad bowl down between their settings and goes back for the main dishes. She carefully sets his plate down first, then hers.
"Thank you, Shai."
Is there anything else you need, general?
"No, thank you. May I ask what we are dining on this evening?" Shai grabs the menu off the island, hands it to him, and points at Monday. He reads it silently to himself and hands it back to her.
Still, Sephiroth looks over the meal with mild surprise. He had no idea these were the type of dinners she was preparing for him, but he should have. To be so oblivious is unacceptable. His attention to detail. His keen sense of observation. His preternatural sight. Every advantage he has in battle, he is incapable of executing in his own home. He can practically hear Moreau's motherly tone scolding him; all you had to do was open the fridge.
Shai seats herself and waits for the general to make the first move. Her mother's etiquette lessons are ticking off in her head: keep your elbows off the table, never talk with your mouth full, taste your food before seasoning it, only cut one or two bites at a time, eat slowly and pace yourself, and always take your cues from your host from the start of the meal to the end. Shai discreetly watches the general, removing what look to her to be reports from the folders. He angles them at 45° to allow him to read them without the risk of spills or splatters. Once organized to his satisfaction, he lifts his napkin, unfolds it, and lays it across his lap. Shai follows suit. He begins his dinner by cleanly slicing into the chicken. Shai begins as well, her fork messily spooning up a helping of rice, but despite her best efforts, several grains fall back onto her plate and the table as she lifts it to her mouth. Her mother would be appalled.
As she eats, she chances a glance or two at the general. She isn't sure what she was expecting to see. A military grunt shovelling food into his mouth or some other stereotypical image, but that is definitely not what she observed. He is precise. He is efficient. He is thorough. He does not rush. He is everything Shai is not. She is relieved that he has a sizable appetite. When dinner concludes, the chicken is gone as is the rice and two servings of salad. She hears the clink of cutlery against his plate and looks to see he has finished. Perhaps the portions were too small?
Did you have enough to eat?
"Yes. Thank you, Shai." He gathers the papers together, taps them on the table to align them, and places them back in the files. He closes the folders and leans back in his chair, his eyes on her.
"Dr. Moreau sings your praises as a chef. She is right to do so." Shai can feel her cheeks warm and she can't even place the blame on residual heat from the kitchen.
Thank you, general. That means a lot coming from you. He rises from the table so quickly that Shai thinks for a moment that she has said something offensive.
"Yes, well. You're welcome." If Shai had been able to peer closer, past the stray strands of silver, hidden within the subtle shadows cast by lengths of fringe, she would have seen a slight colouring high on the general's cheeks. But he does not give her the opportunity. He picks up the files and moves into the living room. Shai clears away the place settings. She begins tidying up the kitchen. She soaks the pans in soapy water while clearing the counters and loading the dishwasher. She wipes down the dining table, counters and stove top. She washes and dries the pans, then programs the dishwasher for a full cycle. Shai ends her work drying off the island counter-top and hanging the tea towel on its hook.
Sephiroth has reclined on the couch. An arched floor lamp diffuses a pale light overhead as he continues to read the reports he brought home, flipping the reviewed pages onto an ordered pile beside him on the floor. The firelight influences the light within its reach, bouncing shadows across fabric, wood, and stone. The sounds of Shai cleaning the kitchen change from the clang of pots to the drone of the dishwasher. In his peripheral vision, he sees her wiping the counters as her day comes to an end.
Despite the monotony of the work he is currently doing, and 3rd class cadet reports are monotonous, he must concede that right now he feels at ease, relaxed. Dare he say, content. He has not had a meal like that since, well, a while. Moreau is correct in her assessment of the chef in the restaurant upstairs. He is sure Shinra politics are in play, otherwise the man would be out of a job. Sephiroth would bring his food home, half eaten, because consuming the entire entree would turn his stomach. He blames Sybelline for all the takeaway containers. Take it home and reheat it, she'd say, it's bound to taste better. It was a lesson in futility. But tonight's dinner? His only regret is he had been so preoccupied, he did not truly savour every mouthful.
May I get you anything else, general?
"No, thank you."
OK. I will be in my room if you need me. My door will be open.
"Thank you, Shai." She smiles, then disappears down the hallway. Her mannerism of smiling at him he finds peculiar. In every instance she has given him this expression of happiness, he has not acted in a way to deserve it.
Shai sits down on the edge of the bed. She undoes her hair bands and loosens the curls with her fingers, spilling thick tendrils about her like a veil. She flops back on the bed, her arms out wide, and closes her eyes. This has been her plan all day. After dinner, after cleaning up the kitchen, after making sure he didn't need anything else, she would spend the evening in her bedroom. She would either start the novel she brought from her apartment or begin a drawing from the sketches of the still life. So, why is she lying here with no motivation to do one or the other? Maybe she should change into her pyjamas and turn in early. It's not even nine thirty. She can't go to sleep now. Then what should she do? She thinks of the fire burning and wonders if the general is still reviewing his reports.
His review of the remainder of the reports takes him much longer than anticipated. His eyes see names, service numbers, cognitive ability test results, medical exams, and physical trials and yet the words, numbers, symbols, lose their cohesion and jumble together. Rereading the material does not ensure memory retention. Something is vexing him and he does not know what. Yes, he was trapped in his office all day doing evaluations, but that is nothing new. He had to bring work home with him, but it is not the first time. He is bathed and relaxing comfortably in casual clothing. He had an excellent meal. Then why can't he concentrate? A man of his intelligence should not be so easily distracted.
With a mixture of relief and frustration, he throws the last report down on the pile. Sleep will not come easy in his present state. In the past, a few minutes of focused meditation has helped to quiet his mind. It is worth a try. He leans his head back on the arm of the couch and folds his hands across his stomach. Closing his eyes, he zones in on the repetitive rhythm of the final cycle of the dishwasher, but soon his focus begins to wander from the audio to the visual. He recalls the stray strands of hair, pulled loose from the elastic band, coiled into ringlets down the nape of her neck as she stood at the sink finishing the dishes.