A Cold Dish for Dinner
By Cecilia Yam

Every Thursday night, I would prepare a large plate of spaghetti for my wife and I. We called it our Italian night although neither one of us had a speck of Italian blood in our veins. However, she adored it, the spaghetti. She especially loved it when her tomato sauce was covered in the snowy-white Parmesan cheese. Her eating habits were something I could never figure out.

Staring out at the dimly lit streets of Downtown Toronto, I can vaguely recall our many nights of gorging down the palatable meal. Even now, her throaty moans of pleasure each time she devoured a fork-full of spaghetti echoes throughout my mind. As I perch myself on the worn-out couch, Deirdre had bought twenty-something years ago at a garage sale, I cannot help but remember how much she loved to possess antiques.

Suddenly, the clock perched on top of our old television set chimes. Glancing away from the musty window, away from the nearly empty streets and pouring rain, I see that the short hand of the clock has finally struck 7 o'clock.

This night has been long awaited, ever since that fateful day in the cemetery. Barely a week before were my hands deprived of her lifeless body, snatched away by the Devil himself. I stood there, only a few feet away from the lowering coffin, my eyes bloodshot from nights of weeping and lack of sleep. If she were there to see me, she would have beamed at me. I love the colour of your eyes, she would say, and I would know that she was not talking about my gray eyes. She would be talking about the sorrowful red veins that surrounded the gray and my reddening skin that surrounded my eyes.

She loved red. I wonder if that is the reason why she liked spaghetti so much?

Ding-Dong!

Oh! My visitor has come. Gradually, I lift myself off the worn couch and slowly approach the wooden entrance with turtle-like footsteps. I open the creaking door and stare outside in anticipation. My guest stands there, smiling happily as if we are the best of friends. Pasting a cheerful façade over my lust-filled gaze, I step away to allow my visitor inside my home.

Seven months ago, I had first laid my eyes upon her slouching form, her blue eyes glimmering with tears. She stared at the casket, as I did; yet she didn't allow her welled-up tears to spill over her pale and frozen cheeks. At the time, my eyes had taken on a frightening glow as I searched the woman's features.

She was clothed in black attire, fit to match the occasion; a simple, black dress of modest cut, short black gloves clothed her bony hands, the biting wind caused her to wrap her thick coat around her wiry frame. I watched this unknown woman as she stuffed her gloved hand in her pocket and took out a wadded handkerchief, dabbing at her wet cheek before stashing it away once more. Her hands were clasped tightly together, the well-manicured fingers writhing with one another as if in a battle match. Each time the Reverend said my wife's name with his rich tenor, she flinched.

Deirdre, she looks like you. How can that be? Her blue eyes are as rich as yours were. Her auburn threads are as curly as yours were. Studying the woman's thin frame, I was almost sure that this stranger had stolen my spouse's carcass and revived it. From that moment on, I knew it was she.

She sent me a sympathetic smile, that day, as if we had been friends for years. But, I could see right through her mask. I could see her boastful smirk. I could almost hear her words mocking me. She's dead, she said. She's gone. You allowed it. No. No, I didn't. I would never allow her to die; it was out of my control.

No matter what I said, she never left me alone. Her narrowed eyes bore right into mine, accusing me of a crime I did not commit. She won't be by your side, anymore, she continued to murmur.

But she will. She'll be at home, cooking dinner.

No more breakfast in bed.

Waiting for me.

No more movie nights.
And she'll be happy to see me.

She won't be there to embrace you.

You're lying.

I did it.

I screamed that night. I couldn't cry, anymore. That bloodcurdling shriek was all I had left. My tears escaped me the few days after I had learned of her departure and there were no more left to shed. I must have woken up the neighbours that night; police officers came knocking at my door, wondering if there was something to report. And that's all they care about, whether or not they need to make any more room for new delinquents in that damned prison.

My guest is staring at me in confusion, now. I must have wandered too deep into my memories. Smiling, reassuringly, I gesture towards the dinner table where two large plates of spaghetti are laid out, a dimly lit, white candle set in the center of the cloth.

We approach the dinner table and I proceed to take out a chair for her. Smiling sweetly, she thanks me and sits down. Finally, I allow my eyes to roam about her features, my eyes taking on an unearthly glow. Tonight, she is not assuming her wavering smile and mourning clothing; tonight, she is clad in a tight-fitting, red dress with a lacy trim. As I lower my body onto my seat, I look past the burning candle to regard her highlighted countenance.

I can honestly say that the woman is breathtaking. Her upturned nose accentuating her high cheekbones clothed in a light coat of crimson, her rouge lips displaying a show of defiance and pride. That thing's about as sturdy as your mum's rickety rocking chair! I told you to get rid of it, didn't I? Yes, you did. You told me to oust it in the trash, you did. Don't defy me, Jem. I will never defy you, Deirdre.

Yet, you're still looking at me as if I had just totally disregarded what you had just said. You stare at me as if I am no longer worth your time. Don't turn your back on me, baby, please.

"You're right. You're always right, dearest. Don't do this -"

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice shocks me. She is not Deirdre. She is a woman in my wife's body, but she didn't take her voice. I heave a sigh of relief. Her voice will forever be preserved in my mind. Not even this intruder can take it away.

Realizing that my guest is waiting for a response, I smile warmly and reassuringly. "I'm sorry," I say, gazing into her cerulean-blue eyes. "I was just talking to myself. Got a lot on my mind, lately."

She smiles in return, her pristine white teeth glowing in consolation. The meal begins.

Together, we clasp our hands together, resting them on the table before our meals. After making the sign of the cross, I peer through my ruffled bangs to study her murmuring lips. The deep red of her flesh folds and unfolds of their own accord, chanting a prayer that has been repeated by those same lips hundreds of times.

Shutting my eyes in anticipation of what is to come, I pray with her, allowing my deep tenor echo throughout the room. Everything seems so familiar, yet so surreal. This cannot be allowed; this discomfort to eat in one's own home. Nevertheless, the deed must be rendered tonight. Deirdre, I'm doing this for you.

The prayer ends. I lift my head to see her doing the same. We smile at one another and I raise my hand to gesture, once more, to the plate before her. She beams, happily, lifting her fork to begin her meal. I watch her for mere seconds before doing the same. Grasping the metal utensil on my right, I proceed to consume my meal, as well.

Deirdre devoured her meal ferociously and with fever. I would hear the frantic scraping of metal upon glass, as she made sure every single string of spaghetti, every single drop of tomato sauce, was depleted. This woman, however, does not gorge down her meal like a frenzied beast. Gingerly, as if what she is about to eat is a delicate piece of thin glass, she conceals her fork among the furious strings and timidly spins the handle around. Once a collection of spaghetti is attached to her fork, she cautiously lifts it towards her parted lips.

Lowering my narrowed eyes, I also proceed to enjoy my meal. After three fork-fulls of spaghetti, I lift my head to peer at my guest only to catch her watching me with curious eyes. I smile around my mouthful of food.

"How is the food?" I question, in a friendly manner.

"It's delicious," she responds, eagerly, swirling some more spaghetti to her fork. "This must be one of the best Italian dishes I've ever tasted." She gave me a compliment. Deirdre would have simply ignored me until the plate was empty.

I send her another grin. "This is Deirdre's recipe," I respond, quietly as I watch for a flinch or a darkening of the eyes.

Yet, she only gives me a sympathetic smile. I have received it before from many people, however, her attempt at warmth only attaches itself to my mind, never leaving me alone. She's doing it again, I hear a voice echo throughout my mind. She won't ever leave you alone. Now, I see it. She's making fun of me. Deirdre, help me. She won't stop smirking at me.

"Your wife must have been a great cook," she finally says, after a small and uncomfortable silence.

I can only nod my head in response. She was. She was the greatest cook. Deirdre. Sweet Deirdre. God, I miss her so much.

"She was such a beautiful woman, that Deirdre," the redheaded beauty continues, setting down her fork and placing her hands in her lap.

Yes, she was beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world. No one can compare. No one, the voice repeats, mockingly.

My gray eyes narrow dangerously as they follow the movement of the woman's slender hand as she flicks her red curls behind her pale shoulder. "We met at a coffee shop, where I use to work, a few years ago. I don't know what happened but the next thing I knew, we just started talking like we were the best of friends."

You're not her best friend. Don't claim to be hers. She is mine. And no one else's.

".Told me about you. She seemed so happy, at the time. I knew, then, that you must be a great person."

She spoke about me. What else did she say? Are you jealous of her beauty? Are you envious of her popularity? Do you resent her because she is loved? No one can compare. No one.

".It was a mere coincidence that we had the same eye and hair colour."

A mere coincidence. No more. Just a coincidence.

".People even said we looked alike," she finishes, giggling heartily.

I could no longer hold it in. Without warning, my trembling hands are grabbing at her auburn curls and yanking at them without mercy. Faintly, I hear the cry of pain at the abrupt attack but my mind is elsewhere. No, no, no, no! You two are nothing alike! No one can compare! No one can compare!

Pull. Pull. Pull harder!

Leaping out of my chair, I scramble around the table to bring her away from our appetizing meal. Tug. Wrench. Jerk. Harder. Harder! Spinning her dainty form around to have her facing my maniacal appearance, I raise my right arm in the air before bringing it down, my palm connecting with her blushing cheek.

This is her punishment.

She cries as her body is flung to the hardwood floor, her delicate hand caressing her bruised skin. I loom above her, menacingly, ready to pounce if she so much as twitches. Her startlingly blue eyes stare up at me, frightened beyond belief. In a frenzied attempt to save herself, she scrambles to her knees and frantically tries to escape my abuse.

She deserves it.

My right foot raises before connecting with her stomach. Another gasp escapes her lips as my fists pound into the side of her body. Two minutes later, her body is lying on the floor, tattered and bruised like the porcelain dolls Deirdre stashed away in her equally tattered trunk. Her wiry frame is trembling beneath me, tears ghosting down her pale cheeks.

Do it.

My stiff, mechanical body brings me to my dark kitchen, automatically searching through the numerous drawers built into the ground. Even in the dark, my eyes catch the glimmering metal of the kitchen knife, lying on its bed among the other appliances. Without hesitation, my doddering hand grasps onto the black handle.

I hear the alarming gasp even before I see her limp body. Undaunted by this, I approach her.

There are too many pleas to count, too many cries for help, before I am able to finally sink the metal blade into her delicate body. The dark, crimson liquid spills onto my hands as my home is finally met with silence. I stare down at my hands, my arms, stained with the blood of a girl who tried to take my wife away, who tried to steal her identity.

With a feeling of accomplishment, I rise to my feet and walk down the darkened hallway and into the bathroom. After washing my hands of the red substance, I return to my dinner.

Picking up my fork, once more, I proceed to devour my unfinished supper. Raising my fork-full of spaghetti to my eager lips, I am finally able to enjoy a well-deserved meal. As I consume the delicious aliment, I realize that my dish is no longer warm.

Revenge is indeed a dish served cold.

Author's Notes: The concluding sentence of the story was not written by me. I found it in a Weiss Kreuz fanfic which I can't remember at the moment. So, if this fic happens to be yours or if you know which fic I'm talking about, please e-mail me at so I can give you proper credit for the line. It influenced me to write this story.