Whenever we have a fight, I make her an omelette. It helps that I love to cook and am pretty good at it too. If she is upset at me about a cancelled dinner plan, I have an omelette ready the next morning. Parmesan cheese, pesto and oregano. Oh, How I love watching her dig in, her eyes narrowing as she slips the fork into her mouth, the sudden burst of flavours bringing a smile to her face. We make up soon after. Yesterday I forgot to get the air conditioning repaired and we spent an uncomfortable night. My fault. But by the time she was out of the shower, I had a sunny yellow omelette with caramelised onions and herbs shining pretty on the tabletop. This time, she ate but I could tell she wasn’t pleased. At me. No, not the omelette. That was perfect. And yet, we failed to make up and she left for work without a kiss or a goodbye. The thing is, I am afraid I am in love with the art of creating the most perfectly delectable omelettes to the extent I have begun to invent reasons to argue with her. Now you may ask me why in the world must I disagree with her to make an omelette. Can’t I just make her one every day? You see, it’s not as simple. I believe everything in life must have a purpose higher than what its most obvious role is. My higher purpose, I believe, apart from being a son, a lover, and an out-of-work actor, is making delectable omelettes. The omelette on the other hand, apart from being the best breakfast there can be, serves a superior function of an intercessor. It is where it gets its fulfilment from.
Maybe it is she who now needs to find her higher purpose other than being my miffed lover. Perhaps initiate a make-believe argument, and find humour in the ensuing drama? Just so I can cook a scrumptious omelette? And the omelette can intercede between her and me? And we can complete the divine circle?
Vanilla Hues 