Conflagration

The evening of the date began with a lie—careless, slight, and well-meaning, of course, the way all disastrous lies are. Maria had told Enzo she could cook. Not just cook, but cook, in that dismissive way that implied she had been simmering osso buco since infancy, rolling out pasta dough since grade school. In reality she had never so much as julienned a carrot.

But Enzo—who spent his summers in Sicily working in his father's restaurant—had mentioned in passing how rare it was to meet someone who really understood saffron. Maria, who had only ever encountered saffron as a suspiciously expensive jar at Whole Foods, had nodded sagely in reply, and now she was trapped in a kitchen of terrible decisions.

The risotto was a swamp of gluey rice that refused to absorb more liquid no matter how much she pleaded to it under her breath. Somewhere along the way she had dropped her phone in the sink, where it now sat like a drowned prophet offering no hope of salvation. The smoke alarm that had formerly refused to work was now screaming in its shrill, bureaucratic manner, and the bottle of wine she had intended for deglazing was empty—she had forgotten what it was for and drank it an hour ago.

And then, because someone had a sense of humor, the doorbell rang.

Enzo arrived smelling like orange zest and something faintly marine, like he had been by the sea just before stepping inside. His hair was tussled, sleeves carelessly rolled, and when he saw the mess in her kitchen, his lips curled in an almost-smile. Maria wanted to disappear. She gestured wildly. “It’s—” She didn’t even have the words.

He crossed the kitchen and lifted the lid of the risotto pot. A beat of silence. Then, with a shrug that seemed much too kind, too indulgent, he said, “At least it’s not on fire.”

Which was, unfortunately, his mistake. Because at that precise moment, the forgotten tea towel—draped over the stove—caught flame. Then the curtains. Then the sheer fabric of Maria's dignity.

What followed was a slapstick choreography of shrieks and arm-flailing, of Enzo throwing water at the flames and missing entirely, of Maria grabbing the fire extinguisher and nearly knocking herself out with the recoil. The risotto, in some final act of defiance, slithered out of the pot and onto the floor.

By the time the chaos subsided, Maria stood in the ruined kitchen, hair full of ash, eyes wide with horror. Enzo, blackened with soot and stifling a rather bemused expression, gauged the damage before finally meeting her gaze. “You know,” he mused, “I’ve never had risotto flambé before.”

And then, because there was truly no way to salvage any of it, Maria let out a breath and looked at him with a lopsided smile. “Well,” she said, “me neither.”