#Chapter 94: Sous Chef Struggles

Abby The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air. The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be hearing right now. I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed. John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta. “How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way. “It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the repetitive motion. John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him, an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured. And yet, it doesn’t.