The dishes went into the sink in the order Monica always did them glasses first, then flatware, then the pans, because pans left to soak did the soaking themselves while she handled everything with actual feelings about being scrubbed by hand.
Chandler had migrated to the couch with the remote and the specific slack posture of a man who considered his hosting duties officially discharged.
Joey and Ross had gone, Ross still muttering something about iridium under his breath like a grudge he intended to nurse until morning.
Phoebe was drying, not because Monica had asked her to but because Phoebe dried when she wanted to talk without making it look like she wanted to talk, and Monica had known her long enough to recognize the tell.
Monica scrubbed the risotto pan harder than it strictly needed and replayed the whole thing in her head for the fourth time since the plate went back.
You bloomed it in wine.
Not water.
Nobody said that.
People said “this is delicious” or, if they were trying, “I can really taste the saffron,” which told her nothing, which was the same as tasting nothing, which was honestly most people, most of the time, eating her food like it was fuel and not a thing she’d spent forty minutes on with the actual intention of it mattering.
She’d built a whole internal scoring system over years of testing dishes on exactly this couch, exactly these people, and the system existed because she needed it: Chandler complimented everything to avoid conflict, Ross complimented anything served with enough confidence that arguing felt rude, Joey complimented food in direct proportion to how much of it he was currently eating, which was not the same thing as an opinion.
And then this guy quiet, unbothered, Phoebe’s stray tasted one bite and reverse-engineered her technique in a single sentence, correctly, without being asked to, like it was the most natural thing in the world to actually pay attention to what was in front of him.
That was, if she was honest with the sink and nobody else, a little bit infuriating.
She liked winning the judging.
She liked being the one who knew things nobody else in the room knew, who caught the detail, who noticed when someone had swapped the good vanilla for the cheap stuff.
Having someone walk into her kitchen and do that TO her, on the first real try, on a dish she’d been quietly proud of for a week that scraped against something competitive and old in her, something that had nothing to do with Mike specifically and everything to do with every time in her life someone else had gotten to be the one who noticed first.
“You’re doing the thing,” Phoebe said, drying a wine glass with more attention than a wine glass required.
“The face.
Where you’re mad about liking something.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re a little mad.”
“I’m processing.” Monica set the pan in the rack harder than necessary, water sheeting off it.
“He’s very he’s specific.
I don’t love people who are specific.
Specific means they’re paying attention, and I don’t always want people paying attention, some of the time I want people to just eat the food and say it’s good and let me have that.”
“But he didn’t say it was good.” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“No.
He said it was clean.” Monica said the word like she was still deciding whether to be offended by its accuracy.
“Which is a BETTER compliment, honestly, and I hate that it’s a better compliment, because now the bar for everyone else who’s ever eaten in this kitchen is permanently ruined.”
Phoebe didn’t say anything right away, which for Phoebe was its own kind of pressure she waited well, better than anyone Monica knew, content to let a silence do the asking instead of pushing.
It worked exactly as well on Monica as it worked on everyone else.
“He’s not trying to win anything,” Monica said, eventually, quieter.
“That’s the actual thing.
Chandler tries to win the room.
Ross tries to win the argument.
Even Joey’s trying to win something, half the time, usually a sandwich.
This guy tasted my food because he actually wanted to know what was in it.
That’s I don’t get a lot of that.
People performing enjoyment at me is basically my whole social diet.”
“So he passed.”
“I didn’t say he passed.”
“You said ‘clean’ like it changed your whole week.”
“It’s a good risotto.
I’m allowed to have feelings about my own risotto.” But there wasn’t any real fight left in it, and Monica could hear that herself, could hear the argument going soft around the edges the way arguments did right before she gave them up entirely.
She dried her hands on the towel at her hip, turned, and looked at Phoebe directly the real look, the one reserved for verdicts that mattered.
“He’s good,” she said.
“For the record.
I’m saying it once and then I’m not going to make a thing of it, because if I make a thing of it, it becomes A Thing, and then everyone’s watching me watch him, and that’s exhausting for everybody.
But he’s good.
Something in Phoebe’s shoulders let go that Monica hadn’t fully clocked was tense until it wasn’t anymore a small release, quickly covered by a shrug that tried and failed to look casual.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
“I know you weren’t.
I’m giving it anyway, because that’s how this works, and you know that’s how this works, and I’m not going to apologize for the system existing just because you pretend not to need it.” Monica picked the pan back up, inspected it under the light for a water spot that wasn’t there, set it down again anyway satisfied.
“He’s allowed back.
Tell him not to make it weird.”
“I don’t control what he makes weird.”
“Then tell him I said it, and let him figure out what it means.
He seems like the type who’d actually think about it instead of just saying thanks and moving on.” Monica pulled the drain plug, watched the water start its slow spiral, and felt something settle into place in her chest that had nothing to do with the dishes the particular, private satisfaction of a verdict rendered, filed, and closed, at least until the next audition came through her door and gave her something new to be competitive about.
“For what it’s worth,” she added, already turning back toward the counter, already moving on to the next thing that needed doing, “I wasn’t expecting to like him this much this fast.
I don’t usually.
You should know that means something.”
Phoebe didn’t say anything to that.
She just smiled the real one, quiet, a little private and reached for the next glass in the rack.
hey quick one before you close the tab.
if the cliffhanger is killing you, the future already exists.
you just need a ticket through.
every chapter the second i finish writing it.
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P.S.
in a parallel timeline, the rest of this story runs completely free on unwrittenrealm.com.
just saying.
that timeline also has more chapters.