Same Side of the Table

Chapter 28 – Same Side of the Table

Evening rehearsed rain and then decided to be merciful. The corridor outside Aleem’s flat smelled like laundry negotiating with curry leaves. On the shoe rack, his mother had left a note in tidy teacher script: Neighbour’s mahjong. Dinner is yours. Kitchen is a democracy. Wipe stove. A smiley, which she deployed rarely and correctly.

He stacked bowls on the counter, lined up the pantry grammar they’d built together–tea / any time, soy / patient, dashi / please rest, the small bottle of sesame oil that refused to brag. In the fridge: tofu pressed under a plate like a child pretending to be responsible, kailan crisp and opinionated, a bag of spring onions already sliced long‑long from the last market morning. Rice rinsed, water measured with the knuckle rule aunties swore by and engineers disputed.

A: Lift lobby. Carrying diplomacy, her text read.

Aleem: Door open. Pantry prepared to host a summit, he sent back, then tucked the phone away. Tonight did not need pixels to hold it steady.

Aoi entered with the soft thud of a person who knows where to put shoes. White cotton shirt, sleeves rolled; trousers that forgave standing; hair tied back in a way that suggested knives would be present. From her tote she produced a Tupperware–upgraded by the dry goods auntie, as promised–filled with kueh lapis cut into precise dominoes. “I bring layers,” she announced, then added a glass jar wrapped in paper. “And chili jam… for courage.”

“You come armed,” he said, resisting the urge to make ceremony of it. “Welcome to the kitchen democracy.”

They washed hands with the seriousness of surgeons and then let the room teach them where to stand. He manned the rice and water; she set the dashi to bloom–bonito like paper boats that knew their jobs. “Soup first,” she said. “So the room smells like a plan.”

“Plan: miso with tofu and spring onion,” he confirmed. “Side: kailan with garlic. Also, chicken wings baked with soy and mirin… if we trust the oven to behave.”

“We trust but verify,” she said gravely.

“House dialect,” he approved.

The tiny mishap arrived on schedule, dressed as steam. The rice pot, which had always preferred drama to timing, boiled as if auditioning for volcano. A little spill hissed onto the stove and tried to become a crisis. Aoi tapped the counter twice near his hand–here. One hold–stay. Then three light taps–air.

He turned the heat down without narrating panic. “Small mess,” he said. “Invitation, not failure.”

“New square,” she said, amused. “Small messes are invitations.”

He grinned. “Filed.” He wiped the ring with a cloth, breathing as if he were at a concert where the bridge required common sense.

The oven, perhaps jealous of the rice’s moment, clicked and decided to argue about temperature. Aoi crouched to read its face, then stood and drew a little breath through her nose the way professionals consult with inanimate objects. “We treat you like an elder,” she told the dial, and gave it five degrees more than it thought it deserved. The light steadied. “Respect works,” she said, pleased.

They moved like a duet that had only recently been choreographed–he minced garlic; she trimmed kailan stems; he whisked miso into dashi until it made a cloud that wanted to be soup. The gray gloves sat in their pouch on the counter like honored guests. “We should invite them only when pages are older than us,” she said, touching the pouch with a fingertip. “Tonight we can use our hands.”

“Hands have tenure here,” he said.

He slid the wings into the oven; she flicked garlic into the hot pan and listened for the sound that means yes, not sorry. The kitchen filled with the smell of decisions cooperating. She lifted the tofu cubes into the miso with the reverence due to small things. He scattered spring onion like confetti that had taken a vow of humility.

“Taste?” she asked, offering the soup spoon.

He sipped. “Like apology and comfort married young and learned to work,” he decided.

“Correct,” she said, satisfied.

They set the table without declaring it a scene. Two bowls, two plates, chopsticks with the good ends, a small dish for chili jam, water poured like a promise. He hesitated a beat, then pulled his chair around to her side. “Same side?” he asked. “So the stove becomes our view.”

“Same side,” she said, a smile that didn’t need spectators. “We watch things not us.”

They ate in the softer key of people who had cooked what they’re eating. Miso first, the way doctors recommend and grandmothers knew before doctors. Aoi closed her eyes briefly on the first sip; he did not narrate it. The kailan came with garlic that had made adult decisions. The wings, lacquered modestly, asked for fingers and received them; they shared the plate’s mess without pretending they were above it.

“Chili jam?” he asked, hovering the spoon.

“Proceed by invitation,” she said, offering a corner of wing. He added a cautious dot; she nodded, then added more, confident that courage loves company.

Halfway through, she reached for a napkin and missed; his hand moved first, offering his handkerchief instead. He paused with it suspended. “May I?”

“Please,” she said, and he wiped a small comet of sauce from her cheek with the exact touch you use on museum glass–enough to clean, not enough to leave a mark. “Thank you,” she added, the words that had learned to be shorthand for a long list.

“Thank you for trusting me with… cheek architecture,” he said, and she laughed into her bowl.

They traded bites without commentary. She moved the last crisp bit of kailan stem to his plate; he split the last wing tip because no one should be burdened with an entire wing tip alone. Eating on the same side made the table feel like a bench. The room approved.

Dishwashing is where couples audition against melodrama. They passed by being boring on purpose. He soaped; she rinsed; both stacked with the geometry of people who respect plates as co‑workers. The pan sulked; they soaked it and refused to turn this into a battle.

“Tea?” he asked, towelling his hands.

“Herbal experiment,” she suggested, lifting the auntie‑faced packet from the shelf. “Your mother approved trial conditions.”

The brew steeped to the color of advice. They carried cups to the window where the city practised reflection on glass rather than water. Rain had finally decided to exist, soft and correct.

“May I ask a small big thing?” she said, palm up on the table edge.

“Please.”

“When I’m tired–travel tired, not soul tired–can we eat like this? Same side, quiet, soup first? Even if it means we ignore messages for an hour?”

“Yes,” he said, relief inside the word. “We can adopt soup as policy.”

“Policy,” she repeated, amused. “Add to museum?”

“I will,” he promised.

They let the rain do a paragraph. She put her head on his shoulder for exactly the length of two in, hold, three out. He stayed furniture and felt happy about being furniture.

“Your mother’s note,” she said, voice near his shirt. “Kitchen is a democracy. She trusts us with voting.”

“She does,” he said. “She also trusts us to wipe the stove.”

“Democracy includes clean up,” Aoi agreed gravely, then lifted her head, the briefest echo of earlier benches. “Dessert?”

“Kueh lapis,” he said. “Layers as document.”

They cut the cake with the respect due to architecture. He plated two pieces, then slid her plate an inch closer. “May I sit closer?” he asked, half a joke, fully adult.

“Proceed by invitation,” she said. “You may.”

They ate layers with fingers like civilized rebels. The herbal tea decided to be helpful; the window became a television without channels.

Before she left, they reset the kitchen like a stage that might host another show. She rewiped the stove without admitting to it; he reset the rice cooker with a cloth under it because aunties had taught him condensation is the enemy of dignity. She gathered leftovers into the upgraded Tupperware and labelled it wings / tomorrow / bravery. He slid a note onto the biscuit tin for his mother: Approved layers consumed. We will buy more dominoes if bribery needed.

At the door, shoes and rain had a conversation. She lifted her palm–flat–two taps; one hold; three light taps. “Here,” she said. “Stay. Air.”

“Here,” he said. “Stay. Air.” He looked at her cap, then her face. “Thank you for sitting on the same side.”

“Thank you for wiping sauce with museum hands,” she said, then, the sentence that had acquired too many footnotes to remain long: “Thank you for room.”

They bowed–earned, correct, finite. She left with the careful stride of someone carrying a room inside their ribcage.

He washed the last cup because some promises belong to one person. He opened the locker door’s paper museum and added two squares cut from the corner of a calendar that was more memory than schedule now.

Small messes are invitations.
Soup can be policy.

He slid them under Feed people first and above Choose together. The stack made the soft noise paper makes when it recognizes family.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Same side is good. Thank you for cheek architecture maintenance. Layers approved.

Aleem: Home. Museum updated. The stove sends its regards. Next time: omelette with diplomacy. We proceed by invitation.

A: Proceed. Good night.

He lay on his side facing the wall that had memorized his breath, the smell of miso and rain performing a duet in the room. He counted because counting had never failed him yet.

Two in, hold, three out. Not magic. Structure.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, the corridor learned the sound of mahjong tiles finishing a friendly argument, the city rearranged its reflections for night, and in a kitchen that had voted to be a home, a stove cooled without sulking.