one actor coroner romance
you are the butcher and the knife and the neck of the goose
The chef is cutting livers in the back of the restaurant except the restaurant is empty and the freezer is empty and the chef himself is empty because the livers are his own. A chef is cutting livers in an empty restaurant because he is a chef and all he knows how to do is cut livers; if there are no livers to be cut, so be it, he will cut his own.
A chef is a coroner in the same way a square is a rectangle; nobody calls the chef a coroner, but the positions of each organ in the goose are muscle memory to him. The knife breaks skin with precision. The hands peel it back with efficiency. The eyes identify a story in each anomaly within the goose without needing a single sound from the goose itself. This goose broke its leg when it was just a gosling, the chef says, except the room is empty so he is talking to himself.
Carving a goose is easy, carving a human is only one step ahead in the line. The chef is the coroner, not the murderer, so the only human he carves is himself. There is no story left in the goose, so he serves his own liver on a plate. Disregard the empty restaurant; he carefully plates his own blood and draws delicate swirls on the plate. This goose was a goose before it was ever a gosling, the chef says, except the restaurant is still empty so he is still talking to himself.
A patron will enter the scene, now. Cut. A patron will enter the restaurant, now. The disambiguation is important to the chef. A restaurant is not the scene the same way the chef is a coroner, so he is careful not to make the correlation. The patron enters, the patron sits, the patron is served. Today’s special is goose, says the chef and he will deliver his own liver to the patron, instead.
The chef watches the patron eat. He does not know if this is narcissism or desperation. This is good, the patron will say, I’m getting hints of citrus. The chef smiles because there is no citrus in the dish. The chef smiles because it is the polite thing to do when a patron says this is good. Disregard the need for the patron to taste the dish correctly. This is good, the patron will say again. There is no follow-up this time. The chef does not tell the patron the dish is liver. The patron takes a picture and captions it; the caption reads duck with citrus.
At some point in his career, the chef had cooked an actual goose. He had plucked the bird himself, prepared the seasoning on his own, meticulously watched the oven door as the skin of the goose slowly browned. It had been a whole day’s event. He had done it because he loved the process, perhaps loved the goose. Or maybe he had loved the knife that cut the goose. He served this goose the same way he will serve his liver, silently setting the plate before the customer. This goose broke its leg when it was a gosling, he wants to say, but instead he settles for hearing the customer say is that a hint of citrus?
Back to the present, the freezer remains empty, the patron remains thinking the plate has citrus, and the chef continues to cut pieces of himself for the pan. Is the spleen or pancreas more flavorful? The chef asks himself this question and neglects to consider which will cause his own body to collapse faster following removal. How much more must I hollow myself before I create something worth consuming? The chef asks the question and immediately goes back to debating spleen or pancreas; some questions are more palatable than others.
There is blood on the floor; the patron doesn’t notice. There is blood on the floor; maybe the patron is pretending not to notice because the dish is good and there is a morbid curiosity as to whether the blood on the floor contributes to the delectability of the dish. There is enough blood on the floor now that the chef is considering saying sorry, the restaurant is closed today. We have run out of ingredients. But the patron does not mention the blood so the chef does not mention the blood and the chef serves his own marrow and the patron says I love how the raspberry undertones compliment the citrus from earlier.
The patron pays the bill and leaves. The chef returns to the kitchen. He takes his knife to his chest, but there is already nothing left to carve out. He sits on the floor, blood forming delicate swirls around him. He smiles. At least the dish was good.
Wow this cut deep. No pun intended.
listen, i read this and i understood every word and metaphor and now im finished reading and i'm trying to string my thoughts into something that reflects that understanding but i can't. that's a compliment i promise, your work was understood in my heart and this inarticulation is a sign of affect!
this was absolutely gorgeous. the only thing i know for sure i can articulate is a feeling of deep and painful misunderstanding, and the numbness of not caring so long as that misunderstanding leads to love.
and my usual bout of quotes that make me unwell:
"Carving a goose is easy, carving a human is only one step ahead in the line. The chef is the coroner, not the murderer, so the only human he carves is himself."
"How much more must I hollow myself before I create something worth consuming?" and its followup, "The chef asks the question and immediately goes back to debating spleen or pancreas; some questions are more palatable than others."
"But the patron does not mention the blood so the chef does not mention the blood and the chef serves his own marrow and the patron says I love how the raspberry undertones compliment the citrus from earlier."
"He had done it because he loved the process, perhaps loved the goose. Or maybe he had loved the knife that cut the goose. He served this goose the same way he will serve his liver, silently setting the plate before the customer."
"The chef smiles because it is the polite thing to do when a patron says this is good. Disregard the need for the patron to taste the dish correctly."
well well done! <3