In a small apartment somewhere between rush-hour traffic and the rice cooker, the aroma isn’t there yet. It is waiting. Lina nudges the door open with her heel, a plate in both hands, her glasses slightly askew—as if the meeting had personally insulted her. On the plate sits a potato. Just one. Beside it, a few pale strips that look as though they got lost on the way.
“We aren’t breaking up,” she murmurs. Whether she means the boss, the traffic jam, or the potato remains unclear.
She keeps her shoes on. Once you take your shoes off, you don’t cook anymore; you sit down. She adjusts her glasses, ties back her hair, and nods at the little sheep on the wall. The sheep is the only colleague who isn’t contradicting her today. Then, the cutting board. The meat, which still held its shape, loses it—cut smaller and smaller until it stops acting so important. The potato is diced and lands in the oil, as if embarking on a very brief vacation. One of the cubes tries to get back onto the plate. The strainer says no.
Garlic, chili, ground meat, those strips, a splash of sauce, chives scattered like confetti over a mess that suddenly looks like dinner. The wok is steaming. Her heels click once against the tiles—just so the apartment knows who is finishing her shift here. Finally, she lifts her spoon toward the camera, perfectly calm. The potato sits right in the middle of the meat, finally grasping the meaning of the phrase. We aren’t breaking up. Not after work. Not before dinner.
