Chapter 34 — "Sunday Rice"
1056 Words
Sunday arrived bright.
The first properly bright Sunday in weeks.
Maya noticed it when she opened the curtains.
Real sun. The kind that hadn't shown up in a while.
She stood at the window for a moment.
Adrian appeared in the doorway.
He looked at the sun.
"Good day for rice," he said.
Maya turned.
"You don't know how to make rice," she said.
"Your father is going to teach me," he said.
"My father burns rice," she said.
"Then we'll learn together," he said.
Maya looked at him.
At this man standing in a doorway on a Sunday morning prepared to learn to cook rice from a man who had never successfully cooked rice in his life.
"Okay," she said.
She got her coat.
Her father was waiting at the door.
He had put on his good shirt.
The blue one he wore for important occasions.
Maya noticed.
She didn't say anything.
He looked at her hand first.
Then at her face.
Then at Adrian.
He smiled.
"Come in," he said.
"You wore your good shirt," Maya said.
"It's Sunday," her father said.
"You wear that shirt for important things," Maya said.
"It's Sunday," he said again.
He went inside.
Maya looked at Adrian.
Adrian looked at Maya.
They followed him in.
The kitchen was small.
Three people made it very small.
Her father stood at the stove.
Adrian stood beside him.
Maya sat at the table.
She had offered to help.
Both of them had said no.
"Watch," her father said.
Adrian watched.
Her father measured rice.
Not carefully. The way he always had — by feel, by eye, by some internal calculation that had never quite worked.
"You measure it like this," her father said.
"That seems like a lot of water," Adrian said.
"It is a lot of water," Maya said from the table.
"That's why it burns," Adrian said.
Her father looked at Adrian.
Adrian looked at her father.
"Less water," Adrian said.
"My wife made it this way for twenty three years," her father said.
"And was it ever not burned?" Adrian said.
A pause.
"It was occasionally not burned," her father said.
Maya put her hand over her mouth.
"Less water," Adrian said.
Her father looked at the pot.
He looked at Adrian.
"Less water," he agreed.
Maya laughed.
Her father pointed at her.
"Don't," he said.
She laughed more.
The rice was not burned.
This was noted by everyone.
Her father looked at the pot like it had done something unexpected.
"Hm," he said.
"Less water," Adrian said.
"Yes yes," her father said.
He served it anyway like he had planned it.
They sat at the small table.
Three people.
Too many for the table.
Exactly right.
Her father had made daal too.
That was not burned either.
"You've been practicing," Maya said.
"I have been walking to the shop every day," her father said. "A man who can walk to the shop can learn to cook daal."
"Those are unrelated skills," Maya said.
"Everything is related," her father said.
Adrian looked at Maya.
She looked at him.
She could tell he was going to remember that.
"He does that," Maya said.
"Does what?" her father said.
"Remembers things people say," she said.
"Good," her father said. "A man should listen."
Adrian looked at her father.
"You and my mother would have argued a great deal," he said.
Her father raised an eyebrow.
"Was she usually right?" he said.
"Almost always," Adrian said.
"Then we would have agreed," her father said.
Adrian almost smiled.
Her father definitely did.
After lunch her father showed Adrian his books.
Maya washed the dishes.
She could hear them in the other room.
Her father's voice. Adrian's. Low and unhurried.
She washed the rice pot.
It was not burned.
She thought about that.
About a woman who had burned rice for twenty three years and a man who had never said anything about it.
About a man who had walked into the kitchen and said less water and meant it kindly.
She dried her hands.
She looked at the ring.
The worn gold. The small stone.
It had been on her hand for three days.
Still felt new.
She thought that would change. She was looking forward to it.
She brought tea to the other room.
Her father was in his chair.
Adrian was on the sofa.
Between them on the small table was a book. Open. Her father pointing at something. Adrian looking.
Maya set the cups down.
Neither of them looked up.
She sat in the corner chair.
She watched them.
Her father talking. His hands moving. Adrian listening. Asking a question. Her father answering at length.
Maya drank her tea.
She thought about a year ago.
About a hospital bill and a dying father and a life that had felt like it was closing in from all sides.
She thought about now.
A year ago she hadn't known it would look like this.
She was glad it did.
They left at five.
Her father stood at the door.
He hugged Maya.
Then he turned to Adrian.
He put both hands on Adrian's shoulders.
He looked at him.
Adrian looked back.
"Take care of her," her father said.
"I will," Adrian said.
"I know," her father said. "I'm not reminding you." He paused. "I'm thanking you."
Adrian was still.
"For what?" he said.
Her father looked at him.
"For making her sound like her mother again," he said.
The doorstep was very quiet.
Adrian looked at her father for a long moment.
"Thank you for the rice lesson," he said.
Her father laughed.
"Less water," he said.
"Less water," Adrian said.
Her father let go.
He looked at Maya.
"Sunday," he said.
"Every Sunday," she said.
He went inside.
The door closed.
Maya and Adrian stood on the pavement.
The afternoon going golden around them.
"He thanked you," Maya said.
"I heard," Adrian said.
"Are you alright?" she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
He took her hand.
The ring warm between their fingers.
They walked to the car.
The city quiet for a Sunday. Everything going slow.
Maya thought about every Sunday from now on.
About rice that was not burned.
About a father in his good shirt.
About less water.
Every Sunday.
She liked that.
- Writer
