Chapter 7 — Cooking for you for the rest of your life

Not strong, but extremely clear.
“Stop looking.” I said, flipping the chicken wings.
“Watching you cook so beautifully.” she said.
“What's so beautiful about cooking?”
“Your cooking is beautiful.”
I didn't reply. Turn down the heat. Otherwise it will burn out.
—It's not like the food is about to burn.
But my brain is about to burn. Forty minutes later, all five dishes were brought to the table. Covering the small table in my room. The heat rose, the fragrance filled the whole room. She sat in front of the table, her hands on her knees, her expression like a child waiting for the new year.
“Can you eat yet?”
“Eat it.”
She picked up a piece of sweet and sour tenderloin first. The moment she bit down, her expression immediately changed. It's like—surprised to discover that the version in the thermos and the version just out of the pan are not the same dish at all.
"Oh my God." She chewed twice. “This is crispy on the outside.”
“Excuse me, once fried, of course it must be crispy.”
“Previously, meals at the company were always soft.”
“If kept for a long time in a thermos, it will soften.”
“So from now on, can I come to your house to eat every day?”
As soon as she finished speaking, she herself was stunned. Like the mouth is faster than the brain. The atmosphere was quiet for two seconds.
“…I mean, the food just cooked is so much better than the food in the thermos.” She lowered her head to pick up the food, her ears turning red.
I pretended not to hear what was said before.
“Eat a little more.”
A meal lasts nearly an hour. She eats quite a bit. Three chicken wings, almost half a plate of filet mignon, a few pieces of sea bass. Drink two bowls of beef brisket soup. Finally I took out the pudding from the refrigerator.
“Is there more?”
“Sweets end the meal.”
She took it and scooped a piece. This time she didn't close her eyes. She looked at me. Straight, steady eyes.
“Ky Hoan.”
"YES."
“Do you know why I look at your thermos every day?”
I was stunned.
“…Because of hunger?”
She put down her spoon.
"The first day I came to work, at noon he opened the thermos. Inside were Coca chicken wings."
“Yes, I remember.”
"When I took the first bite, I frowned a bit because it was cold. Then I placed the chicken wings next to a cup of hot water to warm it for a while before eating again."
“Do you… remember that clearly?”
“When I warmed the chicken wings, I was smiling.” she said. “I even said in a low voice, ‘next time you need to wrap yourself in a heat-insulating bag’.”
I don't remember saying this at all.
“At that time I thought,” she bowed her head, looking at the pudding in the bowl, “a guy seriously cooks rice and brings it to the company, but when he eats, he is still dissatisfied with the temperature and thinks of ways to improve it.”
“Someone like that—”
She raised her head.
“I want to watch him eat every day.”
I can't say anything. The hand holding the cup tightened slightly.
“So it's not because of poverty.” I said. Voice a bit hoarse.
"Not."
“It's not because of hunger.”
“Neither.”
“Then why don't you say it directly?”
She tilted her head.
"Say what? 'Hello, I'm the new employee sitting across from you, I want to watch you eat every day, is that okay?'"
“…It's a bit strange.”
“So I just looked.” she said. “As a result, you took the initiative to bring me food.”
“I thought you couldn't eat.”
"I know." She smiled. “You are truly a good person.”
“…”
“So I just keep eating.”
I looked at her. The warm light from the kitchen penetrated the hallway and fell on the side of her face. The corners of her mouth were stained with a bit of caramel color pudding. I raised my hand. A thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Caramel sticks to fingertips. Her breathing stopped for a beat. I retracted my hand, brought my thumb to my mouth and licked it.
“Yeah, a bit too much sugar.”
Her whole face immediately turned red. From both cheeks, down the neck to the tips of the ears, it was like a glass of tomato juice had just been splashed on me.
“Ky Hoan, you—”
“Yes?”
She opened her mouth, unable to say anything. Both hands clutched the fabric of her skirt, her knuckles were white. Seeing her reaction, I suddenly burst out laughing.
“Kieu Mong.”
“What, what?”
“Are you still coming tomorrow?”
She was stunned for two seconds. Then he nodded vigorously. The amplitude was so great that I almost hit my head on the edge of the table.
"Arrive."
【Chapter 8】 Four remaining days of the National Day holiday. She comes every day. Not because of eating rice—okay, mainly because of eating rice. But after eating, she didn't leave anymore. She would stay, sit in my chair looking at her phone or reading a book on the shelf. When I wash the dishes, she stands next to me, occasionally helping to pass a plate. The physical distance between us has narrowed a lot, but there is no ambiguity. I don't confess. Neither does she. It's just that—both sides understand clearly in their hearts, but no one can pierce that thin layer of paper. It's so good that it's a bit stupid. The vacation ended, we returned to the company. Everything remains the same. I brought rice, she ate. At noon, we sat opposite each other, peacefully. The only difference is that now when she eats, she moves her chair about two inches towards me. Two lunch boxes placed almost next to each other. Luong Vien said we are like living a retired life.
"Every day we eat and then go for a walk. We eat and then go for a walk. What is the relationship between the two?"
"Colleague."
“Your damn colleague.”
A Thursday in mid-October.