BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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FRIDAY
13.06.1997
ISAIAH

               I find indescribable comfort in watching Dorian cook in my kitchen like it's his. At the slice of his first onion, he forgets all his anxieties about imposing on my space or messing up some carefully cultivated order — which doesn't exist because my organizational scheme is putting things wherever I happen to put them — and makes himself at home. Because that's what it is now: our home.

I try to ignore my guilt over the fact that I have no idea how to cook a Sabbath dinner as I sit on the workbench perpendicular to where he works.

'Are you sure you don't want any help?'

'Yes.' The edge to his voice is hardly indefensible considering this is, at least, the fourth time I've asked.

I tug at the earrings on my left lobe. 'A hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes.'

Still, I ask again. 'Are you really sure?'

'Shay—' Dorian lays the knife down, shutting his eyes for a breath. 'When it comes to cooking, I have a very particular way of doing things, and I appreciate the thought, but you'll mess it up. I don't want you to touch anything.'

My shoulders slump. 'I feel useless.'

The confession is more vulnerable than I expected and I turn away exactly when he looks at me. I've never observed Sabbath properly — I never had the privilege to stop everything for twenty-five hours nor would my mother have allowed it. And since Dorian always observed it with his family, he never taught me how either. The only time we got close to spending Sabbath together was the night he left.

'I don't know how any of this works. I've never done this before. I don't know any of the rituals. And—' I cut myself off before I can spiral.

The tap runs as Dorian washes his hands. They're cool when they fall to my knees to push my legs apart so he can stand in front of me. I don't look at him even when the intimacy makes my heart skip.

'It's okay.' His voice feathers my cheek. 'I'll show you.'

I allow him to turn my head to face him. He kisses my forehead and, when my smile remains faint, bends my head back to catch my eyes.

'First, we light the candles. It's supposed to be done by the woman but I suppose we take turns. Then it's kiddush over wine, though I bought grape juice because I don't like wine and you can't drink. Usually, we stand on Fridays and on Saturday, we sit, but if you're in pain, of course, you can sit tonight too. Then we wash our hands, recite the kiddush for that, and then challa. We're not supposed to speak between those. And then we just eat. Fish first, then soup, then meat. And I made chameen for tomorrow.' He smiles, caressing my jaw. 'It's okay. I'll show you everything.'

I lean into his hands though the dread only grows. 'I feel like you're gonna hate me.'

'Why would I hate you?'

I yank back as well as I can and blink at him. 'We never lived together so you don't know this yet, but I always leave tings half-done because my own body is constantly at war against me and I've never got the energy to do em all the way. I'll do the washing up but I never dry em or put them away. Same with clothes: I just leave em on the drying ting till I use em again. I will literally be sweeping and just leave the dust pile on the floor. So you always gonna be picking up after me like I'm a child and you'll grow to hate me.'

I exhale sharply to mark the verdict as a judge hits their gavel. Glaring at him, I silently challenge Dorian to dare to disagree.

He just smiles.