What the fuck.

A single red strawberry sat alone on a white plate.

“What are we doing, Chef?” Mateo waited patiently.

A fucking strawberry?

“He’s fucking lost.” Tess flipped through a copy of The Silver Spoon. “What dish uses a strawberry?”

“A torte!” Mateo guffawed.

It needs to be a dish.

“It needs to be a dish, Matty.” Tess swapped her cookbook for another.

“J, you’re the better chef,” Mateo said. “What are we doing?”

Tess recoiled. “The fuck?”

“I-I-I’m just saying he’s got more vision.”

“I got vision,” Tess said. “I got vision coming out my eyeballs.”

“I know, chef.”

“You just stick to baking desserts.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“J,” Tess slammed her hand down. “What the fuck are we doing?”

J reared up. He freed an old cookbook, ripped it open, and slammed it down, tapping a single recipe.

Strawberry risotto.

---

In response to the February 8th writing prompt from Writers.com:

Writing Prompt: Before the Starting Gun

Write a scene, poem, or short piece that takes place just before a moment everyone else would consider the important one—the performance, the race, the conversation, the confession, the departure, etc. Stay with the quiet training space instead. Write about the warm-up, the waiting, the private ritual, how the body or mind prepare itself to try. Let the real tension live in the part that most people don’t see, and end the piece before the “main event” ever arrives.

Attribution:
Cover photo by Matt McKenna on Unsplash