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DEGUISES

THE SOUS LOVES the kitchen.

He loves the food. He loves the diners. He loves the Chef.

He loves watching spirits vanish in a burst of blinding light.

He loves, most of all, that he has been allowed to stay.

When the Sous awoke it was sans memory, no recollection left to tie him back to where he’d been. A clean plate; a clean slate. He should have moved straight On.

Yet here he still is, inexplicably, working in Last Supper. Still cooking. Still serving. Still turning memories into food.

Something happens, each time he serves a meal.

Ingredients get left behind.

He finds them as he clears the plates—a crumb of bread; a flake of pepper; a stray tomato seed.

Keep ’em , the Chef says. You earned it. Maybe one day, you’ll make your own last meal.

So the Sous collects them in glass vials, labels them with tape, stores them in a drawer. It will take a lifetime to amass enough to cook with, but he’s in no rush. There’s something he is waiting for.

Someone.

It is an instinct, subconscious. A feeling in his gut just like intuiting a meal. One that makes him stay, tells him she’ll come, that he should feed her when she does.

IN THE END, he doesn’t know her by sight, or touch, or sound. Only by taste.

The flavor of her kiss a craving, its quality like coming home.

The best thing he has ever tried. Will ever. Ever could.

A special kind of salt.