Honey, The Lasagna Is Burning

Hung here on these blue-striped walls, I have been stuck staring at them for hours on end, the sight of the two a disaster I can’t seem to pull my eyes from. Except this catastrophe is neither loud nor chaotic. Instead, it has unfolded over the course of many months and years, to the point where I cannot tell you when their lips last locked. What a curse it is, to be forced to sit here and witness this horror unravel, unable to intervene. What a pain it is, to be reduced to trying to talk to my hands while they turn and tick, each passing second a burning reminder that I am still here, staring.

The pair of robots before me is silent, still. In fact, they have remained silent for a while now, and maybe they always were. Granted, they blab their mouths off from time to time, but it is only in riddles that they speak, and all of their sighs fade into the floor. Sitting at opposite ends of the long glass table, the woman and the man type away at their computers into the darkness of the night, refusing to detach their eyes from the brightness of their screens. Their gazes never meet, but the deafening sound of the look that could have been buzzes and hums in the air continuously.

“Did you take out the lasagna?” cuts the woman’s voice, cold, direct, and brusque. Once, I recall, she spoke softly. She spoke of the lights flickering on her husband’s face and of the deaf fever that came over her when his gaze lingered on her. Now, her humid shadow grits its teeth and holds its breath.

“I thought you did,” he barks, concentrating on the report he must finish by tomorrow. A pause floats around in the poorly lit room, mixing and mingling with the fumes that started to accumulate a while ago.

“It reeks of smoke in here,” she remarks, wincing and wrinkling her nose at the invasive, overwhelming smell. “Could you go check the oven?”

“Why wouldn’t you just check it yourself instead of bothering me with this?” he snarls as he hastily stands up, screeching and scratching the paws of the chair against the dusty floor. Shortly after, too shortly after, he makes his way back to the table and sits down, frowning. “What are you even doing?” he asks, noticing the sound of her typing had lost its usual quick, brisk, mechanical rhythm.

“I’m trying to figure out how to know if the lasagna is burning.”

The creases on his face deepen. “Can’t you just look that up or something?”

“I did,” she states, not elaborating on the matter any further. Their voices drop. Silence sets in.

“Well, what did it say?”

“Apparently, if there is smoke coming out of the oven, that’s bad.”

“That’s so weird,” he replies, baffled. “It can’t burn before the timer goes off.”

She agrees with him, and for the first time in months, they exchange a few authentic words about their shared confusion. Unfortunately, this unusual rapprochement is short-lived, and he is brought back to reality by a cruel alert emerging from his laptop. The corners of his lips immediately drop back down, as if pulled by stern steel strings, and he resumes his typing, keeping his head and his eyes trained downwards. Her fingertips, mirroring his hands, spin back to what feels natural to them by now, resuming their waltz over the keyboard. The heavy, unbearable scent of soundlessness settles in the room, tugging at their noses, stinging their eyelids, and sealing their teeth shut.

Despite the smog becoming more than apparent, dragging its tail from the kitchen to the living room, it manages to go unnoticed by both. Sure, she had gotten a whiff of it earlier, but she didn’t dare to lift her gaze and witness the obviously darkening, thickening air. The smell bothered her, blurred her train of thoughts, and only now that it disrupts her concentration is it worth bringing attention to again.

“There’s smoke coming out of the kitchen,” she states, her tone razor-sharp yet unruffled.

“That’s not possible, honey. I cracked a window open.”

“Still. Go turn the oven off.”

This is the most they’ve spoken to each other in months. Something about the way her words linger in the air and sway around him stings the back of my throat. It isn’t a lot; it isn’t even a drop. Still, I cannot help noticing the hue of hope hovering over their heads. Slowly, the resentment and contempt I held towards them fade into a puddle of feathers and weather. After all, for them to be able to free themselves, they must be able to hear the birds’ song, and for the birds to warble their hymn, the everlasting buzz escaping from the white lights must cease. From time to time, when the engines fall a little softer on my ears, I am reminded, against my will, of The Before. I am reminded of the spark of serenity flashing from her eyes right before she spoke. I am reminded of the tears shed over a missing red line, breaking their envisioned future, hindering their plan to raise one of their own. I am reminded of—

“Wait, if you’re right about the smoke rising, why didn’t our smoke detector go off?” he complains. It is only now I realize he never got up to turn the oven off.

“We just have to change its batteries; it’s okay.”

A rough breath escapes from his scowling mouth, followed by a series of heavy footsteps, finally complying with what is asked of him. Over the next ten minutes, I watch him waddle around like a child, struggling to fulfill this simple task. Lo and behold, he manages to replace the batteries with hurry clouding his eyes as he hastens back to his pitiful throne. Barely has he settled down when the irritating, metronomic alarm begins pounding again.

“Why is it beeping now?” she snaps, taken aback by the plastic disk’s rude interruption.

“I think the lasagna might be burning,” he says, his voice eerily serene.

“Are you serious? Do I really need to take care of everything around here?” Furious, she races across the kitchen floor and turns the corner. As she comes back into my field of view, I notice the annoying beeping has stopped. The smoke, on the other hand, has only thickened.

“There. I turned it off.

“The oven?” he asks, perplexed.

“The smoke detector. I took the batteries out. It was so obnoxiously loud I couldn’t even hear my own fingers type!”

Once again, I hang and I groan, wishing I could intervene. Her statement is absurd, bewildering to the ear, yet there he sits, unwavering and staunch.

“Isn’t it hot in here?” she remarks.

“I think that might just be you. I’m fine,” he answers, with droplets of sweat trickling down the collar of his shirt. Upon realizing his lack of discomfort, she stands up and directs herself over to the thermostat to remedy her own problem. Only as she reaches the panel does a warm light catch her attention from behind the kitchen island, deflecting her from her original trajectory.

From the kitchen, she says, “I figured out why the temperature is rising so quickly. The oven is on fire.”

“Oh” is the only response she gets for a dozen seconds, followed by a mere “That’s fine. Heating isn’t cheap anyway.”

What saddens me most is that if the man were to speak of love, he would speak of her, of how she came on a day of rain to draw the sun. Instead, they sit face-to-face, with bricks for brains, and tap their fingerprints until smooth and raw, leaving me stuck somewhere between grief and guilt. Day in and day out, I pray they change, I pray they wake, for I am aware I cannot open someone’s eyes by shouting; I can only hold the light steady long enough for them to finally see. As much as I wish I could help, I know I cannot, so while their keyboards click and clack, I, the clock, will keep ticking.