Chapter 6 — Cooking for you for the rest of your life

I still feel—we are not equal. No matter how simply she dresses, the temperament in her bones still cannot deceive others. Speaks gently but coherently, does not panic when encountering problems, and looks very dignified when eating. As for the car that came to pick her up— I looked it up. That night, I went home and searched for a long time. Based on the vague body lines and symbols in memory, a brand was finally identified. Maybach. Starting price is one and a half million yuan. It wasn't her mother who borrowed it. It can't be a borrowed car. That night, I lay in bed looking at the ceiling for a long time. Monthly salary twelve thousand. Rent a house together in an old apartment complex. Cooking is the only skill that can be shown off. Where do I rely? Early October. The day before the National Day holiday. The company gave them a half day off, and at 2:00 p.m. the whole group got off work. Before leaving, Kieu Mong was packing her things at work, I passed by her side.
“Do you have any plans for National Day?” She suddenly asked.
“No. Just stay home.”
“Staying at home all seven days?”
“Yes, I can play games and cook.”
She pursed her lips. His fingers unconsciously tapped the table top twice.
“So… can I come to your house for dinner?”
My steps stopped. I turned my head to look at her. She also looked at me. His eyes were averted for a moment, but quickly stabilized.
"It's just that I usually eat the food you bring to the company. I want to taste the taste when it's just finished cooking." she said. “Leaving it in a thermos for a long time will affect the quality of the food.”
What she said made a lot of sense. A thermos will indeed cause the stir-fry to soften and reduce its crispness. But— Let a female colleague come to the house. Shared room where I live alone.
“My house is very small.” I said. “It's a single room in a shared house, with a shared kitchen.”
"No problem."
“Pretty messy.”
“I don't criticize.”
“…”
I couldn't say no to her. For the past seven months, I have never been able to speak.
“Then come on the third day.” I said. “I prepared a table of food.”
Her eyes curled up, the curve at the corner of her mouth was much larger than usual.
"Okay."
The first day of the National Day holiday. I cleaned the room once. Not the "stuffing all the stuff in the closet" kind of thing, but serious cleaning—mopping the floor, cleaning the table, washing the curtains, changing the bed sheets, removing all the boxes that had been piled up for three months and then taking them away to throw away. Luong Vien sent me a text message asking: "What are you doing on holiday?"
“General cleaning.”
"You? General cleaning? Does the sun rise in the west?"
“What does it have to do with you?”
“Does Kieu Mong want to come to your house?”
“…How do you know?”
“The look on her face when she asked you before the holiday, even a blind person could see it.”
“Just came for a meal.”
“Yes, just a meal.” His tone makes others want to fight.
Third day of National Day holiday. Two o'clock in the afternoon. The doorbell rang. I wiped my hands and went to open the door. Kieu Mong stood outside the door. Today she didn't wear the old clothes she usually wears to work. She was wearing a white cotton dress, her hair was loose and untied, and on her feet were a pair of clean canvas shoes. In hand, carry a bag of fruit.
“Already here.” I leaned over to let her in.
After entering, she looked around. My single room is not large, about twenty square meters. A bed, a table, a wardrobe, Bookshelves on the entire wall were filled with technical books and novels.
“Really small.” She said it without any hate, just like she was stating the truth.
“I said it was small.”
“But very clean.” She walked to the bookshelf and looked around, placing her finger on the spine of a book. “Do you still read Higashino Keigo?”
"Sometimes."
“I like it too.”
She turned around and smiled at me. The hem of the skirt, due to the turning movement, slightly fluttered up into a curve.
“Where is the kitchen?”
“This side.”
I led her to the shared kitchen at the end of the hallway. Today the other tenants have all gone home for the holidays, and there's no one in the kitchen. All ingredients are already laid out on the stove. Today I prepared—Coca chicken wings, sweet and sour tenderloin, steamed sea bass, dried fried string beans, tomato beef brisket soup. Add a portion of caramel pudding that has been chilled in the refrigerator.
“Five dishes?” She looked at the kitchen. "Who are you cooking for? For the whole army?"
"Didn't you say you wanted to eat the food that just came out of the pan? Make a few varieties for you to choose from."
She said nothing. Eyes curled up. Then she moved a small stool over and sat right at the kitchen door.
“You cook, I'll sit and watch.”
I put on an apron and turned on the stove. When the oil is hot, a sizzling sound can be heard in the pan. Her eyes always followed my hand. Slice the meat, marinate it, mix the sauce, and put it in the pan. When cooking, I am very focused, my hand movements are agile, and my knife technique is neat. This is muscle memory trained after ten years of cooking. She just sat at the door looking at me like that. Occasionally prop your chin, sometimes bend your legs and sit cross-legged. Quiet as a picture. I tilted my head to look at her. The warm light in the kitchen shined on her face. White dress, loose hair, sitting on a small chair, looking up at me slightly. Something in my chest jumped.