Simmering Tensions
My wife senses my eyes upon her and turns her gaze from my fellow competitor, Manuel. She smiles, winks twice, our personal ‘you’ve got this’ sign. What’s their sign? I wonder.
Our audience is vast, worldwide, some tune-in at squint-eye o’clock. The Supremo-Chef Finals, the pinnacle of our mirrored careers, the ultimate grudge-match.
I thumb the edge of my cleaver, a bead of blood, a blue plaster pause. Delays agitate
Manuel.
When we were kids, blades were protection, blood left to dry. Rio was brutal, still is. Pinked tourists swarmed the Copacabana, relished the Carioca vibe, revelled at the Carnival. We spilled from the hills like starving rats, vying for scraps, a few centavos, a discarded crust. The fight led us here, hunger, necessity, rancour, greed.
“Begin,” the host announces.
I regard the slippery heart before me, inhale, tighten my grip on the knife. It’s not just about food anymore.
Kristen lives in Dorset and spends too much time procrastinating on long country walks with her pooch, Coco, and not enough, writing. She has won and been shortlisted in several competitions, and has been published in Writer’s Forum, Scribble and Mags4Dorset.
This story was shortlisted in the October 24 Monthly Micro Competition.