On Edge

She reaches up on tiptoe and the saucepans crash and tumble out of the high cupboard as she slams them down onto the rusty metal hob. She throws the switch across on the extractor and the light pings on and bounces off the silver rim of the pan. Blowing air out of her nose she takes some deep breaths to steady her nerves and pulls the packet of pasta out of the cupboard, staring at the stream of quills falling into the pan. Brown and hard and whole-wheat- not as tasty but so much healthier, she reminds herself that she really needs to lose some more weight before the weekend. Sucking in her stomach she checks out her reflection in the grubby glass oven door. She turns away, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes but blinking them away before her boyfriend can come into the kitchen and see. She flips the switch on the kettle and the tiny room soon starts to fill with the wet warmth of the steam. The rings on the hob are glowing orange so she pours the water over the pasta and sets the pan over top. She sniffs- she can smell smoke and starts to panic, but then realises the crumbs and dirt on the cooker are red hot and burnt to a blackened crisp. A little laugh bubbles up inside but catches in her throat and comes out strangled. If she wasn’t so upset she’d see how ridiculously on edge she looks, jumping at the slightest thing and shaking. She can hear the men’s throaty laughter floating down the hall from the crowded living room and her stomach churns. She turns away and yanks open the fridge door; the salad dressing bottle comes flying out and hits the hard floor with a smash. Splintered glass flies across the tiles and the oil spreads out like a bleeding wound, seeping into the cracks and under the cupboards. The hum of voices in the living room stops instantly and their silence rings loud in her ears for a moment before they gradually start up again in whispered tones. She knows she is on the verge of making a scene but her deep breaths are doing nothing to quell the feeling of hysteria rising like bile from her stomach. On her hands and knees she tries to stem the flow of liquid with a big wad of kitchen towel, and in her hurry she feels a shard of glass slide deep into her finger. As the crimson blood spots from her finger she yelps and rushes over to the sink. Cursing to herself for being so stupid she holds her finger under the ice-cold jet of water and feels her eyes begin to mist with tears that won’t be blinked away. Suddenly she can feel warmth behind her back and hands resting on her hips. She knows it is him. She wants to push him away, frozen by terror of discovery, but her body yearns for him and leans into it; so deliciously, inescapably wrong. Rough hands spin her to face him and he pulls her finger towards his mouth, kisses it. She can feel her heart hammering at the sides of her chest, so loudly, surely he can hear it. He cups her face in both hands and they look at each other for a long moment. He pulls her into a deep kiss that fills her entire body. Her hands are in his hair; they find their way under his shirt and she is running them all over grabbing at him, tugging him close. He reaches beneath her and pushes her up onto the kitchen side and she wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer. They kiss urgently, until panting, he pulls away and steps back. He stares at her intensely, before turning and leaving the room. She drops back down to the floor, smoothes her blouse and redoes the button that has been ripped open. Her head is spinning. The kitchen door swings open and she straightens with a gasp, sure the guilt is written all over her face. She looks up, wanting it to be him again. Instead her boyfriend is stood in the doorway, face open, eyebrows raised in worry. He comes over to her and wraps her in a hug and she stands wooden and uncomfortable, as the waves of nausea and disappointment wash over her again. He kisses the top of her head, tells her she’s doing a good job; how much he loves her. Avoiding his eyes she parrots back his praise but the words sound hollow and empty, ringing false in the tiny kitchen. As he leaves to rejoin his friends in the living room she breathes a sigh, pleased to be alone again.
She pulls a large stainless steel knife from the wooden block on the side, it’s silver blade glinting in the light, and slices it through the tough skin of the leek laid out on the chopping board. The motion makes her feel better and she slices through all the vegetables robotically, trying to turn her thoughts off, wondering how the hell her life got so complicated.