Warrior Hearts

Practice Makes Perfect

Growing a brain of their own, my feet halt themselves at the threshold of the kitchen. At least it was just that before Singhania decided to grace it with his presence. Now, however, gauging from the chaos of dishes that is making its way into my ears from the confines of the kitchen, I would much quicker believe that he is conducting a painful choir in there, whose sole duty is to punish any passersby's unsuspecting ears. 

As if on cue, the clang of steel against steel pierces through my head; the hair on the back of my neck rising in protest. Shutting my eyes momentarily, I allow myself to inhale a deep lungful of air. Perhaps I do so to muster up the courage to face Singhania. Like a woman on a mission, without another second's delay, I push my left shoulder against the daunting pinewood door. On any other given day, the entrance of the kitchen is firmly sealed shut. Today, however, the door lies ajar. Groaning a warning - almost as if it, too, does not wish for me to enter - it slides open languidly against the tiles below it. 

"Good Lord," I gasp involuntarily. Halting myself yet again, before I've so much as crossed the threshold, I blink in rapid succession, as I vainly attempt to regain my sense of sight. The interior of the kitchen is polluted with a thick cloud of grey smoke; its tendrils having snaked their way into every nook and cranny of the vast room. On instinct, my eyes shoot towards the windows that are littered at generous intervals along the walls of the kitchen, only to find them all sealed shut. Why in the world aren't they open in order to let the air out of this room? Glancing behind me towards the doorway of the kitchen, I expel a sigh of relief. Thank the Lord that the entrance to the kitchen lay ajar, or else Singhania - or anyone else, for that matter, who entered this room - would surely suffocate. 

Although I've not fully entered yet, a sweat breaks out across my brow. Frowning, I wipe the back of my hand against my forehead. If only Singhania would open the windows, perhaps the temperature of this room would not make a volcano seem like a place to seek respite from this heat. Yet another clatter of steel draws my attention towards the back of the kitchen, where I'm well aware, the oven is located. 

"Fucking hell!" Singhania yells. Before I can so much as register the interlaced cry of pain in his voice, a cacophony of clattering dishes follows suit. 

"Are you alright?" I yell, bounding towards the source of the chaos. As I close in on the scene of disaster, the soles of my boots sink into a pool of water. "What in the world..." I trail off, my eyes perusing the floor. What was once a pristine expanse of marble is now no less than a sight that I would expect to find in a marsh. Below my feet is a pool of water whose source I'm unaware of, and neither am I able to discover its ending. As if this wasn't enough, steel utensils of all shapes and sizes have been littered at every odd angle imaginable, almost as if they've been scattered to complete the ambience of complete disarray. 

Once I'm done taking in the mess on either side of me, I allow my gaze to loiter towards the oven. Blocking my view are a pair of black leather boots. Tucking my lower lip in with my teeth, I brace myself for the unknown, as my eyes make their way up north. What must have once been ebony black breeches are now a poor sight to behold, courtesy of an army of stains. Starting from the shins up till the thighs, I can see a film of flour stuck to the cloth. However, these aren't the only stains. I'm unsure what the other marks are from, but every colour imaginable is splattered across the expanse of the material: an ugly shade of brown, a tinge of orange, and there's even a smattering of purple. Good Lord, what deformed rainbow did Singhania walk through? 

Without halting here, however, I allow my gaze to continue its ascent. At the waist, Singhania's off-white shirt is untucked, his belt nowhere in sight. The right hem of it is awkwardly sticking out, lying loosely against his upper thigh, while the opposite side seems to be holding on for dear life in the waistband of his breeches. The collar of the shirt is creating a deep V along Singhania's chest; its flaps lying loose on either side. Perhaps Singhania should unbutton his shirts more often. I must say, it is a pleasant sight to walk into.