she left... but at least the strogonoff bowl is safe

Описание: The apartment still smelled like her. A ghostly scent of vanilla lotion and fabric softener, lingering in the fibers of the couch, in the pillowcases she once pressed her face against. It had been—what? Months? Years? No, it was just a week. Time was strange now, not a linear progression but a nebulous, gelatinous mass of before and after. Before, when she was here, filling the space with the light, joyous and musical cadence of her voice. After, when only the silence remained, dense and inescapable.

But there was strogonoff. Not any strogonoff, Brazilian strogonoff.

It had been an impulse, a sudden fixation, a desperate grasp at normalcy. He had stood in the kitchen, the fluorescent light buzzing above him like an insect caught in a death spiral, meticulously measuring each ingredient. Chicken, cubed into perfect, uniform pieces. Onion, finely chopped, no larger than lentil grains. Heavy cream, the exact right amount—not too much, or it would be cloying, not too little, or it wouldn’t coat the chicken properly. Ketchup and mustard, a precise ratio. He stirred, slow and deliberate, the wooden spoon scraping against the pan, a rhythmic sound that felt almost comforting. It was the one thing they had loved together, agreed upon without dispute. The perfect food, she once said, laughing, dipping a spoon into the rich, golden sauce.

He had cooked it for them before. A hundred times, maybe more. She always liked extra champignons. He hated champignons, but he put them in anyway. Now, he left them out. He would eat it his way, finally. But there was no satisfaction in that, only a hollow victory.

Soon, the rice was ready, made with the golden rule that she had taught him, "for every measure of rice, two of water", seasoned with salt, garlic and onion, just the way she once loved. It was gently added to the bowl, followed by straw potatoes, lots of straw potatoes, which were, as she used to say, "the heart of the strogonoff".

He could only think about how much he wished things were different, that that stupid decision hadn't been made, and that on that cold afternoon, they could be together once again, looking into each other's eyes, saying a lot without saying anything. There was no point dwelling on the past, it was too late.

The bowl was warm in his hands as he walked. The streets were nearly empty, the city wrapped in the brittle hush of late autumn. He didn’t know why he was outside, only that the apartment was suffocating, closing in on him with its walls that still remembered her. The air smelled of wet pavement, decomposing leaves, cigarette smoke wafting from a distant balcony. He found a bench in the park, the wood cold through the fabric of his jeans.

He sat. The strogonoff sat beside him.

The first tear came without warning, rolling hot down his cheek, landing on the cuff of his sleeve. Then another. Then a flood. His chest convulsed with sobs, raw, unrestrained, the kind that shake the body from the inside out. He covered his face with his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes as if he could push the grief back in, compress it into something manageable. It didn’t work.

The first snowflake landed on his knee. Then another on the bench. Then a flurry, slow and deliberate, each flake drifting downward in eerie silence. The streetlights flickered on, casting an amber glow over the whiteness beginning to gather on the pavement. He could hear the distant hum of a passing car, the muffled chatter of two strangers walking by, but it all felt so far away.

Beside him, the strogonoff remained untouched, immaculate. The bowl still warm, the steam rising in delicate wisps, curling into the cold air like a final, stubborn testament to something that had once mattered.

She left… but at least the strogonoff bowl is safe.