The rain had been tapping against the single-glazed window of the flat since five o’clock, a steady, indifferent rhythm that matched the ticking of the radiator. Lukas sat at the small kitchen table, watching the condensation creep up the glass.
The flat was far too quiet now. For forty-five years, the evening had possessed a reliable soundtrack: the clatter of pans, the low hum of the wireless in the kitchen and Karla complaining about the butcher raising the price of lamb chops again. Now, there was only the hum of the old fridge and the occasional whistle of wind through the balcony door.
He stood up, his knees popping in the silence, and walked over to the larder. It was largely empty, save for a few tins of baked beans he never felt like opening and a half-empty bag of organic corn kernels Karla had bought during her brief health kick last summer. Beside it sat a tub of coconut oil.
Lukas pulled down the heavy brass saucepan – the one Karla’s cousin had given them as a wedding gift all those years ago – and set it on the hob. He scooped a dollop of the pale oil into the pan, watched it melt into a clear pool and tossed in three test kernels. He waited, staring into the dark metal, until the first sharp crack! echoed off the tiled splashback.
He tipped the rest of the bag in and slid the lid into place.
As the corn began to pop in rapid, chaotic bursts, the smell filled the tiny kitchen. It wasn’t the rich, buttery aroma of the cinema treats they used to share on Saturday evenings in their youth. It was lighter, slightly nutty and faint. ‘Vegan’, the packet had said in bright green letters. Karla had laughed when she bought it, claiming they ought to try living a bit longer.
The popping slowed, then stopped altogether.
Lukas turned off the gas and lifted the lid, letting the steam roll up towards the ceiling. He tipped the white, fluffy heap into a wide ceramic bowl, sprinkled a bit of sea salt over the top and carried it back to the table.
He sat down in his usual chair, facing the empty one across the table. He picked up a single piece of popcorn, held it for a moment between his thumb and forefinger and put it in his mouth. It tasted mostly of salt and paper.
He chewed slowly, looking at the framed photograph on the windowsill where Karla was laughing, her hands covered in flour, entirely alive. Lukas took another handful, the crunch loud and lonely in the dark room, and wondered how many more dinners he would have to eat alone.
