The kitchen at six. The light hums. The radio is low and half static, a folk song trying its best.

I take out one cutting board. One pan. The wooden spoon is already on the counter because it lives there now. The handle is dark where my hand goes.

Tonight I’m cooking with two people. Both of them are me.

I make a rule that sounds tidy until it meets heat.

Left hand gets the jar stuff. Mustard. Pickles. Capers if I can find them. Anchovy paste in the little tube that always looks like it’s been sat on. Anything preserved. Salty. Crunchy. The things that last.

Right hand gets the soft stuff. Butter. Cream. Eggs. Lemon. Parsley. Things that bruise. Things that turn.

Each hand makes its own decisions. No conferences.

The stove is where they meet.

Real butter leaves a film on your fingers. The wrapper curls on the counter like it’s tired. Left hand twists a caper jar and the brine smell cuts through immediately. Two different kitchens inside one kitchen.

The cutting board has old grooves. They catch onion smell no matter how many times I wash it. The good knife lives in my right hand because that’s where it fits. Left hand takes the small paring knife I keep meaning to sharpen. It drags through tomato skin. It does the job anyway.

Stir with one hand. Chop with the other. The body tries to run two timelines. It mostly works. Sometimes I stop and stand there, holding a spoon in the air, and the next step doesn’t arrive.

Jar lids with dried rubber rings line the shelf. I keep them for no reason. They’re a small museum of things I opened and finished and didn’t throw out.

Left hand reaches for salt. Right hand reaches for lemon. Both are right. Neither yields.

The pan keeps going.

I make something that can hold contradiction without collapsing. Noodles tonight. Something sautéed. Something cold on top. Radishes, sliced thin. Greens dressed in vinegar while the sauce goes creamy on the stove. Cream, then vinegar, like two opinions passing in the hallway.

I don’t taste until the end. That’s the second rule. Hands are busy anyway.

Right hand finishes the sauce. Left hand is still mincing something sharp. They finish at different times. One hand waits while the other keeps moving.

The plate comes together without ceremony. Noodles. Cream. Capers scattered like an argument. Parsley torn instead of chopped because left hand got impatient. The whole thing looks ordinary. Like any other dinner you’d make on a weeknight when you don’t want to talk about anything.

The sink tells the truth later. Two knives. Two little piles of prep waste. Onion skins on one side, lemon rinds on the other. Two rhythms left behind.

I sit down. First bite is confusing. Salty and soft at once. Second bite less so. The tongue figures it out before I do.

The wooden spoon goes back in the drawer. The dark spot stays.

Tomorrow I won’t remember which hand did what. The dish will just be the dish. A thing I made. A thing I ate.