The Client emailed me around Monday, letting me know that he would be by to pick up his stuff sometime later in the week. My entire upstairs kitchen was devoted to cooking for him and although intellectually I know it will be good for me to clear out his stuff and take back the space, I can’t help but think how empty the place will look once his stuff is finally out of there.
Stunned by the break up….
I waited all week, never going far from the phone. Since I have no cell phone (he didn’t pay me enough to afford one) that meant I had to stay home, sitting anxiously next to my landline, checking the caller i.d. with bated breath. Alone, cradling the handset in my lap, I spent endless minutes replaying our relationship in my mind. Thanksgiving dinner. The Christmas cookies. The Italian cookbooks. Everything meant nothing. All that I had left was a shelf full of organic spices and The Client’s failure to commit.
So it was no surprise to me when he didn’t call. Like he said before, he wasn’t able to promise me anything.
I just got done boxing up his herbs, bagging his real salt, his spelt pasta and jar upon red topped jar of organic kalamata olives. I brushed off the pizza stones (plural) and found his re-usable shopping tote from Whole Foods. Gathering it all up, grouping it together, I stood back and assessed my loss. Will I miss filling his 5 gallon water jug with reverse osmosis water for all his cooking? No. Will I miss the unpaid time, mileage and gas spent driving to Fresh Market, The Client’s supermarket of choice? No.
But I will miss his cheery banter. His ability to find me completely amusing even if I am rolling my eyes at him. His adoration for my calzones, even if they occasionally burst at the seems.
The Client is not all bad. I know he’s been skewered a bit on the blog and My Friends on Facebook have totally barbecued him (hold the sauce). Sure, it does make me feel better having so much emotional support while I’m down, but don’t forget. This is the man I cooked for!
Now it is just a matter of time. When will he pick up his stuff? I can’t bring myself to go over to his house and drop off the boxes, just as if I was dropping off a meal one last time. I can’t bring myself to do it because I wouldn’t get paid for my time. And that’s been the problem from the very start.
I should have seen it coming, but I was enamored by the way he spoke of organic oils and sweeteners. His anti-aluminum cookware stance. The remarkable abscence of a microwave oven in his kitchen. Now I realize these things are all superficial. They can’t serve as a solid foundation for a relationship.
And now, it’s just me and my pots.