Phoebe T

Tomato sauce

Dice onions, get them cooking, smelling sweet.

Cut garlic — sticky as blood. Scrape thin discs of it into the pan. Let garlic darken. Wash board. Quick. Tin opener. Grind. Gouge. And open.

Tomatoes patient in their juices. Wet. Pour them out quick. Pan-squeal, then soothe.  Emptyish tin under tap, water slosh, pour out the last half-red parts. 

Hot pan. Cooking sauce. Salt. Stir. Smell it.

Calm. Stir again. Surface of sauce getting deeper, thicker. Slow, glossy bubbles. Silky, and the bubbles look like breathing.

Ring of thickened sauce around the sides. Liquid getting low down in the pan. Laying out almost flat. Bubbles wink and spangling through the red.

Good smell. Plain, blank mood.

Watching telly on the laptop. Contestants cough at chilli. A woman mixes custard with her hands. Sit down to really watch. Want to doze. Don’t. Make self stand up. Open cupboard. Look for the pasta. You won’t want to wait when you’re back.

Choose penne. Ridged like sea shells, brittle. The sea-sound of the bubbling pan.

Stir again. Tenderly, and slow. It’s only me. And this. The sauce. The telly show. Notice the bubbles getting bigger. Blinking closed and then reopening themselves.

Beautiful bubbles, all five. Glossy like water, and sensitive, and dark.

Stir again. And whole sauce shudders. Wince like oyster under lemon. Puckers. All five bubbles blink at once.

Take the spoon out, sharpish.

Breath noise. Hot cheeks. Come Dine With Me voice far away. Whisper of steam. Hissing of sauce.

Look at it. Really look. Really unsure.

Lay the spoon down on the counter. Careful. Half-step away from the hob.  Watch the five bubbles.

Bubbles watch back. Look anxious at first. Then calmer, both of us. Curious eyes, like a creature’s. Looking everywhere. Looking at me.

Smile. Move body forward. Closer to the sauce.

‘Hello?’

No answer. But. A movement of. Sauce. Its body. First squeezing, like a lung. Then deep sea fluttering. Living. Unfamiliar. 

Slow now, slow. Just watch. As it. As they. As the. Sauce inches its way up, inside heavy pan. Slow, spilling motion. Up. Just like a cuttlefish. Up to the lip of the pan, and spilling out. See the pan. See the hob beneath. Yank pan off hot ring, to protect it. Sauce, hiss. Sauce, painful-still, so alert.

‘Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t want you to get burnt.’

Tomato sauce watching, pulsing. Seeming to nod.

Nod back. Lower the pan. Heavy. Clunk. Down on front ring, cooler.

Sauce blinking, moving again. Spilling, scuttling, out across the counter. Sauce headed to the wooden spoon. Collecting the small parts of itself, and moving on. Sauce spilling on towards tin can.

Sauce graceful, changing, spilling. Sauce up the side of the can. Splitting on the snagging metal rim. Reforming, intact. Sauce clambering up and tucking itself in. Sauce’s surface snug, at the brim of the tin. Sauce’s five eyes happy, winking.

I wipe hob with damp sponge, wash pan lightly. Touch the tin gently, feel warmth. Sauce’s eyes calm and half-closed.

Softly push the tin’s lid down, to roof the sauce.  

‘Sleep tight.’

Happy babble of sauce. Gentle calm. And remember.

You. Forgotten you. Still need your dinner. Will you— What will you— Blood scraping inside me like claws. Panic. Scratch. Pierce. Rush to it.

Cold jars clank in fridge door. Slam through cupboards. Search. Beans. Tins. No time to shop. Have to manage.

Clunk foods down on counter. Boil water. Rattle pasta into pan. Loud. Sauce peeping out from its tin can.

‘Sorry.’ Gentle in my voice. But panicked blood.  

Turn off the telly. Close the laptop. Salt the pasta. Oil in other pan. Half moons of onion, cut my finger, sting. Heat. Crank heat right up. Rushing. Hot. Don’t really think.

Crackle of your keys in the flat door. Unlock.

Chatter of the onions in the pan.

My high-strained voice. ‘Hi babe. Hi baby! How was your day?’

You. Your heavy answer. ‘Hey.’

‘Good day?’

No answer. The test of your eyes. Scald. And my steamdamp face.

You sniffing the air, looking round. ‘What’s for dinner?’

Your smile. Your smell, of outside. Thudding shoes.

‘Almost ready.’

You, ‘I asked what it was, babe.’ Your sad eyes, and me wanting to help you. Me, bolted in place by my panicking blood. Sauce half-hidden in its tin. Shivering.

‘Sorry, sorry baby. Pasta.’

You watching. Your body. You everywhere. Behind me and around me. Tight and knotting. You in every breath.

Me cooking. Me shifting. Me, one eye on you all the time. Checking you, timing my laughs to match yours.

You nodding. You, sad. You, boyman face.

Me smiling with my teeth at you. Wanting to repair it all. Wanting to get it all right. Me, at the counter. Tomato sauce fluttering in tin.

New sauce getting creamy and fragrant. All ok. All ok. Colander for pasta. Draining. Gush of steam. Your face. You. Angerstiff.

‘What’s this?’

‘What?

‘This on the drying rack. This pan?’

Look at you. Look at the tin, with its sauce. Sauce blinks from under its lid. Calms my blood.

 ‘It’s from,’ and a stop. Can’t explain.

‘You had your dinner?’

‘No baby, no.’

You. Angervoice.

‘You’ve already had your dinner, haven’t you? And now you’re making me eat crap food, leftover crap food.’

‘No, really, no.’

You with the clean pan in your hand. Holding up.

Pan perfectly clean. And your rage.

‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Again, again, to stop you. To repair it.

Your hard hand. Heavy pan. You standing close to me. You holding the pan by its handle. You look at me, watch me. And. Let the pan drop from your hand. Down. Thud. My soft socked feet.

Pain. Salt of pain up in throat. Pain in blood. Try to not wince. To not cry.

You nodding. Me crouching down, picking up pan. Pain. Putting pan into the cupboard.

Food sizzling. You watching me as I stir it. As I pour the drained pasta into the new sauce. Mix it in.

Me not looking at you. Looking at the tomato sauce, instead. Snug on the counter. For comfort.

Sauce wide awake now, and still hiding. Five small eyes frightened, alert. Smile at it. I. Try to calm it down. Mouth ‘It’s ok,’ to us both.

You noticing. My mouth. You angrybrave. Harsh.

‘What are you looking at? What are you muttering?’

You angryloud, angryrough. Bad. Getting worse.

Me, staying still. Not looking at the little sauce, at the tin can. But you have seen it now. Me, rising up from myself, like steam does. Rush. And settling. Knowing you can hurt me.

You reaching. Rough. Grabbing the tomato tin up off the counter. Jerking it. Scaring me. Scaring the sauce, and it. Sauce spill. Rush. Pour from the tin in one movement.

You shouting. You scared. And me watching. Wondering if the sauce will scald you. Seeing only slightly. Pink pucker marks on your arms.

You, frightened. Me, almost wanting to help you. Me stepping back.

Sauce scuttling up, rushing. Quick. Babbling. Sauce’s bubbles beautiful, alert. Attack.

Sauce clambering up your chest, your angrymouth, and into it. And hold. And plug. And slow. Your face. Your blinking eyes. Your bubbling spit. The shining sauce.

Phoebe T (she/her) is from South London. Her stories and reviews have appeared in Best Small Fictions 2021, Litro Online, IFLA!, Brixton Review of Books, Lunate, Short Fiction and 3:AM Magazine. In 2020 she completed the Goldsmiths MA in Creative & Life Writing through the Isaac Arthur Green Scholarship. Twitter: @pb_ph0ebe