Chapter 98
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
Subject: Culinary Achievements (Sort of)
I can officially say I’ve mastered three things: scrambled eggs, pasta (from a box—don’t get excited), and lighting the stove without flinching like it’s going to explode.
Cooking class is . . . not exactly glamorous.
But it’s surprisingly calming. There’s something about following instructions, slicing things evenly, and knowing that if you screw it up, the worst thing that happens is a burnt omelet.
There’s no past haunting your stovetop. Just heat, time, and the hope that you don’t poison yourself or anyone else.
Today we made grilled cheese with tomato soup—which sounds simple, I know. But it was the first time I sat down to eat something I made and didn’t feel like I was faking adulthood. Otis sat next to me like he expected his plate. I gave him a piece of crust. He sneezed on it. We called it even.
My family said it was good for such an underwhelming dinner. Which, coming from them, is a win.
About Allegra . . . I’ve been thinking about what you said. Maybe she and Otis would bond over our bad taste in wallowing music. Or perhaps she’d knock his bowl over to assert dominance, and he’d follow her around like she was royalty. I think he’d like her. He has a soft spot for the aloof.
There’s a lot I don’t have figured out yet. I’m still trying to teach guitar to the neighbor kid—he plays everything way too fast, like he’s racing the silence. But sometimes he hits the right note and, for a second, it’s like I’m not failing him. Or myself.
Anyway, this was a long way of saying: I’m still here. Still trying. I’m no longer burning my toast.
Song of the day:
“Walking in Memphis” —Marc Cohn
Because lately, every step forward feels like a strange kind of miracle. Even the small ones.
Let me know what Allegra’s listening to this week—and you.