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Three eggs and a scoop of butter.
When it came to omelettes, Soryu remembered the recipe by heart. He did not care for the taste of his own culinary exploits though, finding they tasted far better when prepared by somebody else.
“How is it you achieve this?” He asked Saya once, pressing his fork against the eggs to emphasise the cloud-like texture. He supposed she did not expect for him to actually listen, yet told him anyway in a generous amount of detail.
It came in useful when he was alone in the apartment and found himself craving omelettes most of all. He replicated her technique to meticulous specifications, only to discover it never quite tasted the same. Saya probably never expected him to ask her again to clarify her instructions, much less sound annoyed on the other side of the phone when she repeated the same instructions as before.
It did not matter when he called her, though, nor how annoyed he inevitably sounded. Her response was always one of patience and mild amusement, laughing as she brushed her teeth or watched TV or made herself comfortable in the break room at work.
There was no room for error this time around and he watched the pan like a hawk after adding the salt and pepper. The result was crispier than he might have liked; a little browner around the edges than his preference, but after a little rearrangement on the plate, it didn’t look half bad. Next came coffee, freshly ground and the perfect temperature. He had practiced that too, though perfect coffee never eluded him half so well as the perfect omelette.
He took in the rich scent as he lifted the breakfast tray into his arms and quietly leaned into the bedroom door. He had made a point to leave it open by a sliver, enough so it would be easy to slip back in, though not so much that the food smells and cooking sounds became immediately apparent. It was a semi automatic response; one that became part of his routine without thinking. Even when he was not cooking, he would slip out of bed in the middle of the night to answer phone; leave the warmth of his wife’s embrace to stand in the kitchen and discuss dark things as she slept.
He smiled as he stepped into the bedroom as he always did and laid the breakfast tray on the empty bed.
“I don’t think I did so bad this time,” he said, lifting the plate and helping himself. “It’s not as you might have made it, but I think it’s a better attempt than yesterday.”
He glanced across at her pillow; perfectly preserved in the same state as the last time she laid there. Some of her hair still lay intertwined in the fabric of the pillowcases and, even though it had been months, he was sure that he caught the scent of her perfume on occasion.
Logistically speaking, one day the omelette would be exactly to his liking. He remembered her laughing in the kitchen, though, every time the fork crossed his lips.
“One of these days you’ll get it just right and then you won’t need me anymore.”