Page 11 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
I watch her now, hunched over her own sketchbook, her brow furrowed in concentration. She sketches me, the subject of her current artistic fixation.
The idea is fucking ludicrous. Me, inspiration?
My life is a testament to ruin, not art.
Yet, the way her pencil moves, fluid and precise across the page, suggests she sees something I don’t.
Or perhaps, something Irefuseto see anymore.
I remember the weight of my first rifle in basic training, the stupid grin on my face thinking I looked tough. How being part of the military is what I always wanted.
How fucking naïve.
The truth is, that fucking grin died the moment I was flown out of the country to choke on sand and blood of the enemy.
I take a long breath as the storm rages outside, a relentless beast butting against the walls.
Inside, an uneasy truce has somehow formed. An odd, fragile bubble of shared existence in a less-than-ideal situation forced upon us both.
My stomach rumbles, and Penny looks up, a small, amused smile playing on her lips.
“Sounds like someone’s hungry,” she observes, her voice light, like she's been waiting for a brief moment to snap the tension. “What’s on the menu, Edward? Because if it’s more tea and existential dread, I swear I'll riot.”
I grunt, pushing myself out of the armchair. “Lentil soup, probably.”
Her face falls slightly. “Lentil soup? Are you trying to make me miss my car crash?”
“Survival food,” I state, moving towards the small pantry. “Nothing gourmet here.”
“A gourmet chef could make lentil soup sing,” she counters playfully, hopping off the bed and immediately invading my personal space bubble. She peers over my shoulder at the sparse pantry shelves like she expects truffles to materialize. “Have you tried salt? I heard it makes things taste better.”
I grunt, pulling out a dented can. “Yes, I’ve heard of salt. Revolutionary concept as it is.”
“Clearly not revolutionary enough to make it intoyourkitchen,” she shoots back, leaning closer. Her sweater brushes my arm, and I swear I feel every thread. “Okay then, chef. What else have we got?”
I rummage deeper. “Water. Canned lentils. More water.”
“Be still, my beating heart.” She sighs dramatically, plucking a dusty spice jar from the back. “Expired five years ago! Edward, your pantry is basically an archeological dig.”
“It’s served me just fine,” I mutter, grabbing the can opener.
“It’sdepressing,” she corrects, bumping her hip lightly against mine to nudge me aside.
I ignore herandthe sudden tightness in my groin. “Just shut it. You can help. Get out the pot.”
She claps her hands together with surprising enthusiasm. “Finally! Some action! I’m a pretty good sous chef, you know. I can chop, dice, julienne… all the fancy things. Though I suspect we’ll mostly be opening cans.”
She’s right. My pantryisbuilt for efficiency, not culinary adventure.
But the endless rows of canned soup, dried beans, and rice has served me just fine since I moved up to the mountain.
I grab a large pot from Penny and the lentil soup off the counter.
“Here,” I say, handing her the can opener. “You’re on can duty.”
“My specialty!” she declares, brandishing the opener like a weapon. She tears into the can with surprising speed.
Maybe I should have fed her earlier? I hope she hasn't been sitting there starving…
