I was never good at cooking which is why Seth always used to cook. I would sit on the sofa watching reruns of Gilmore Girls while he acted like a five-star restaurant chef, mastering cuisine that I struggled to pronounce. His speciality was tacos, and sometimes he would let me help; only by chopping the tomatoes or dicing the onions, the minor stuff. He tackled the open stove, sautéing the ground beef and adding all the right spices- a dash of garlic, salt, pepper and a secret seasoning that he hid from me.
Before I could uncover the hidden ingredient, we were no longer. Seth had left me to live life with Rosie May, an accountant from Los Angeles with two dogs called Maisie and Popsicle; I might have spent a few nights, with some vodka shots, scrolling through her Facebook timeline. They had met in Vegas when Seth had gone on a guy's vacation with his long time buddies. At the time, I didn't realise that 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' was code for 'your cheater of a boyfriend will run away with the woman he met in a casino'.
He had ruined my favourite food. The aroma of tacos reminded me of him, it smelled of him. That's why it took me eight months after our break-up before I could even look at a Taco Bell. Then a further three months went by until I woman-ed up and decided to make them myself. But I had messed up. Drastically. They tasted awful.
My salsa covered fingers dirtied my phone's screen as I desperately scrolled back and forth, reading through the recipe repeatedly. I didn't miss anything. I guess I was just destined to fail. The tacos sat sad on my kitchen side counter, a feeble bite taken out of them; the same bite which I had spat in the bin, a few moments later.
Maybe I didn't have enough onions. I sliced another onion and inadvertently, ended up cutting my finger on the sharp blade; crimson red blood dripped onto the floor. I left the kitchen in a huff and went in search of a first aid kit. I was pretty sure that it was in the bathroom. Maybe. It was somewhere. But I couldn't find it. I resorted to sucking the blood from the cut like a 17th-century vampire.
My slippers broke my stomps as I had a child-like tantrum on the way back to the kitchen. And something was missing, from the counter. The taco. It was gone.
I looked down to see my tabby black cat, his name was Whiskers, nipping and chewing happily at the taco that was splattered on the ground. At least one of us enjoyed it.
I slumped to the ground, my back against the cabinet and sulked. Whiskers peered up at me, halting his ravage on the poor taco and eyed me for a second.
"Meow."
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