Our Contract of Distrust

-- 24 --

Apparently, even on Saturday morning, Trin has somewhere to be.

She kisses me on the cheek and bounds out the door, waving to Feodor as she goes.

"Your friend's... nice." Feodor says.

"You can just say she's weird. It's the truth after all."

"No, well, I quite like her."

I don't know how to respond to that.

"You hungry?" Feodor asks.

"Yeah."

"Poached egg?"

"Sure, thanks."

I take a seat while Feodor busies himself with meal prep.

If I want to say something, then I should just say something.

But what?

Seriously, how did people strike up conversations?

"Last night..." I try.

"Yeah?"

Did you sleep well? No. What kind of stupid question was that?

Instead I say, "What was that chicken dish you mentioned?"

"Katsudon?"

I nod.

"You've never had it before, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Should I make it?"

"What?"

Feodor scratches the back of his head. "It's mostly just like crumbed chicken. Nothing that... strange."

Did he think I was scared of exotic foods or something?

"Okay."

He doesn't seem to know what to make of my response. "Okay... I should make it?"

"Yeah, sure."

He just stares for a moment before he speaks. "Then, for dinner..."

I nod again.

An awkward silence overtakes us.

A conversation like that didn't need to be continued, right? So shouldn't he just go back to doing his own thing and stop looking at me?

I clear my throat and point to the pan behind him. "It's boiling."

"Oh- right."

The atmosphere in the room is too weird to sit still in.

"I'll put on the toast," I say.

Feodor nods, his back to me. "Yeah okay."

But even with some feigned purpose, it feels too awkward, so I flick boil on the kettle to drown out any potential need for speech.

Somehow I make it through breakfast without choking on any of my rampant thoughts.

As I down the last mouthful, Feodor glances in my direction a few times before he finally says, "Did you, um, want to come to the shops with me?"

I'm not entirely sure why the next thing that comes out of my mouth is, "Okay."

I'm not sure why I willingly slip into the passenger seat of his car for a silent drive to the supermarket.

Or why I follow behind Feodor and the trolley like some lost puppy.

I don't know why I no longer wish I was doing this sort of thing alone.

As we make our way through the fruit and veg section, I suddenly remember what Trin brought up - how Feodor and I were supposed to have met at a supermarket - and I wonder how that could go down.

Maybe we would both reach for the same piece of fruit at the same time? Was that probable?

Before I realise I've even moved, my hand bumps Feodor's.

He flinches.

"Sorry," I say.

"Ah, no. Me too."

Maybe he was terrified out of his mind by me and I'd just been reading the mood wrong like Trin had said.

How did you go about unscaring someone? Was that even a thing?

I suddenly feel like running away again. But for once it's not because of fear or dislike of someone else, but because I'm the root of such feelings.

"Is there anything I should go grab?" I ask.

"Oh, um, panko breadcrumbs?" Feodor says.

"Okay." I don't even bother checking what that is and hightail it down the nearest aisle.

Sure, let's say Feodor was no longer my enemy, but that didn't instantly make us allies or friends. I don't even know how to transition to such states.

When was the last time I made friends with someone? More than that, when was the last time I had initiated becoming friends? Maybe not since I was 5. But more likely never.

I can't bring myself to even look at Feodor for the remainder of our shopping trip.

I don't know what this uneasy feeling is - guilt, apprehension, distrust - but it seems inescapable.

On the way home I steel myself for round two.

It's not like things could get much worse, I remind myself.

But if talking wasn't really working out for me, I could at least try being helpful instead.

And I do try. But trying and achieving are two different things.

Feodor takes pity on my awkward hovering and gives me tasks to do such as placing flour, egg and breadcrumbs in separate bowls.

I watch as he coats the pieces of chicken in each of the ingredients. I've never bothered crumbing something before. It doesn't actually look as hard as I'd thought, you just end up with a sticky mess on your fingers.

Feodor swallows. "My, ah, mum taught me how to make this. She's Japanese."

"Oh?" Feodor doesn't look like he has an ounce of Asian blood in him.

Once again, he must interpret my thoughts and says, "Ah, well, my stepmom, but it feels weird to call her that. My birth mum died before I was two."

"Oh," How were you supposed to respond to stuff like this? "I see. I'm sorry."

It seems Feodor also doesn't know how to traverse such a conversation and instead just nods.

"We used to make this quite a lot, but I got slack once I was only cooking for myself," he says.

I don't think there was ever a time when I wasn't slack regarding cooking. If it was edible and ticked all the basic life-sustaining boxes then wasn't that good enough?

Well, I'd eaten at Trin's a fair few times over the years and I'd have to admit her whole 'food is an experience' approach did result in better meals, but the disparity wasn't so great that I felt the need to emulate her.

Despite my intentions, my contribution level doesn't increase at all until the meal reaches its finished state. My feeble attempt at compensation is to set the table.

Feodor acts as if he doesn't mind, but I still can't tell what he's actually thinking. Maybe he preferred our prior status quo to this awkward attempt at advancement.

He plates everything up neatly, crispy sliced chicken resting on a bed of rice with sauce drizzled overtop and a cabbage salad of sorts to the side, and it feels somewhat weird to compare it to the meals I usually serve.

I wait for him to finish his grace before I take the first bite.

"It's good," I say. My face becomes a foreign entity and a hint of a smile attempts to emerge.

I think I'm still going insane, just in a different way than before.