January feels like penance for enjoying December too much.
The colorful lights are gone, the holidays are over, and now it's just cold, gray, and miserable. Jane hates January. She hates the cold, the gray, the way the world collapses the second the champagne goes flat, and resolutions unravel into excuses.
The city sprawls below in a winter haze, barely visible beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The TV's blue glow deepens the gloom, layering cold over the dull light that seeps into the living room. It's all just noise now--the overly serious talking heads had been proclaiming the same thing for days. Snowpocalypse. Snowmageddon. The portmanteaus lost their appeal days ago. Stock up, stay home, and wait for the world to disappear under all that white. A weatherman jabs at his angry radar map like he's personally offended by the storm. Jane sympathizes.
To Jane, January is a slow, gray death.
To John, the storm feels like opportunity.
The apartment door unlocks, and John steps in like a man who'd just wrestled the storm and won. Grocery bags in both arms, snow in his hair, boots leaving little puddles in his wake as he walks toward the kitchen island--he's in a good mood already. Jane sees a frozen wasteland outside. John sees a free pass to spend two days making food and getting Jane to admit she likes being snowed in.
He flips on a single light in the kitchen--just enough to work without disturbing the darkened living room. The glow pools around him as he sets the bags on the counter. The apartment is too warm, heat wrapping around him, making him sweat already.
"I made it," he announces, catching Jane rolling onto her side. "Civilization hasn't fallen. Yet."
Jane squints at him, barely awake, already halfway blaming him for the existence of winter. He can see it in the way she's curled up on the couch, buried in pillows and blankets like a hibernating creature.
"How bad is it out there, still snowing?" she finally asks, voice scratchy from sleep.
"Still snowing. People are throwing elbows over frozen pizza," John says, peeling off his coat, shaking off the last of the snow. "Bread aisle's wiped clean. It's Lord of the Flies, grocery store edition."
She sits up a little. "Good thing you're resourceful."
"If I wasn't, we'd be living on wine and rationing leftovers."
"I'd manage," Jane fires back dryly. "I've survived worse."
"Sure." He rubs his hands together, chasing away the last chill of winter cold from his fingers, before starting to unpack. "I didn't just get snacks. I've got everything I need to make this fun."
Jane raises an eyebrow. "Define fun?"
"Cooking and eating therapy," John says, starting to pull out ingredients and lining them up with the confident precision of a man drawing a blueprint. "If we're stuck here, I'm making the most of it," he adds with mock seriousness. "I grabbed the good stuff. Everything else wasn't worth fighting over anyway."
"Let me guess--you're expecting me to applaud every bite like it's a Michelin star worthy meal?"
"Yes, yes I am," John says, setting a bottle on the counter with the air of someone presenting an Oscar. "You should consider yourself lucky."
Jane gives him a lazy middle finger. "What's the wine?"
"Something red and full of alcohol. It'll match the storm nicely."
He watches as her feet poke out from the blankets, a small sign she's warming up to him--literally. Jane stretches, scowling down at her toes like they've betrayed her.
She's not wearing any pants,
John notices, as the blankets slip. She is, however, wearing one of his old college sweatshirts, the blocky letters announcing his long-ago wrestling career.
That's nostalgic.
"Where did you even find that sweatshirt?" he asks.
"I needed something to keep me warm," Jane says, wrapping her arms around herself in an exaggerated hug, "and you weren't here."
He shakes his head with a quiet chuckle as he pulls out the last item from the grocery bag--a box of chocolate truffles. Jane's kryptonite. He already knows this will get him whatever he wants.
"Chocolate?" she asks right on cue, holding her hand out expectantly.
John shakes the box at her. "I'll trade you the chocolate if you turn off the apocalypse," he says, nodding toward the TV where the overly serious talking heads continue their storm coverage. The nonstop doomsday chatter has been irritating him since he walked in. "It will be the same recycled misery on a loop for three days anyway."
Jane sighs and takes the bribe. "Fine." She flicks the TV over to one of those fake fireplace videos. Instantly, the room looks a little warmer, like a placebo effect for coziness.
John raises an eyebrow. "You know that's fake, right?"
Jane snuggled deeper into the blanket. "And yet, somehow, it's already doing more for me than you are."
The apartment is about to get even hotter as Jane grabs the thermostat remote and nudges it up another notch.
"Maybe if you'd find your pants?" he starts.
Jane cuts him off with a glare. "It's in the marriage contract, Article 5, Paragraph 7. I control the heat, I'll call my lawyer if you touch the thermostat. Besides, I lost my pants while you were out playing storm hero. And yes, I was thinking about you."
John chuckles, pulling off his shirt and tossing it onto the back of a chair, leaving him in a sleeveless undershirt. "Really?" he asks, his imagination happily filling in the blanks. "As your lawyer, I'd say that contract holds up. And for the record... I don't mind being the inspiration."
He feels Jane's eyes on him and braces for the inevitable tease, but her voice is soft and warm. Unexpected.
"You should complain about the heat more often."
John smiles, running a hand over the back of his neck as he crosses to the kitchen counter.
Good to know.
"Eat your chocolate," he says over his shoulder. "You've got at least an hour to think about me some more."
From the corner of his eye, he watches Jane tuck her bare legs back into the fortress of pillows and blankets, unwrapping a truffle like it's the most important thing in the world. The soft crackle of the fake fireplace fills the room and John allows himself to savor the quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet he rarely gets. Time to get started--he has a plan to execute.
The lone kitchen light still pools over the island, setting the stage. John steps in, all serious, ready to perform for his audience of one. The ingredients are already lined up, waiting. A knife glides along the sharpening steel, then meets the cutting board, setting the rhythm. Slice. Chop. Dice.
The flick of his wrist sends the pieces tumbling into the pan. The pan hisses back at him, angry and hot. Hot oil knows when you're afraid--and John never flinches. The aromatics hit hard. Steam clings to his skin and sweat gathers at the back of his neck.
Maillard reaction, a chemical reaction between amino acids and reducing sugars that produces browned food and flavor compounds.
The thought flickers through his mind, a reflexive reminder of his methodical approach to cooking. He doesn't have to think about it. This isn't about science. This is about knowing. He tilts the pan, watching edges crisp before he gives everything a quick toss. Season, stir, taste. Adjust. Every movement flows into the next, a seamless momentum that carries him through the steps.
The food is where it needs to be, and the heat is dialed in. All it needs now is a little time. John plants his hands on the counter and exhales slowly as he surveys his work. A masterpiece in progress.
Jane stretches under her blanket, rolling a truffle between her fingers. He can feel her eyes on him. She's letting him have his moment, but she also knows exactly what's happening here.
"Show-off. You cooking for me or for Instagram?" Jane hums, rolling the truffle between her fingers like she's considering something. Then, without warning, she lobs it at him.
He catches it--because of course he does. His look says,
Seriously?
Jane licks chocolate from her fingertips. "Thought you deserved something for the show. Didn't have flowers. Or the energy for a standing ovation."
He tosses the truffle into his mouth. "Something for the show?"
"You love this," she says, clearly amused.
"What? Cooking?"
"No," Jane drawls. "Being watched."
