In Rain You Will Find Solace

The stove goes click-click-burn under Juanita's fingers as she turns on the electric fire. A frying pan is placed on the stove. 


Out comes the cutting board. 


Outside, the clouds began to gather and rumble. Juanita pays no attention to it. She slams the vegetables on the cutting board and looks for the knife. 


The knife is nowhere to be found. 


She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and instead pours a cap full of oil into the pan, followed by a pinch of cumin. The oil starts to hiss and the cumin starts to pop. Juanita steps back a little. The spicy, acrid smell of cumin and heat from the angry, hissing oil combined with the humidity from the cloud-covered sky infused another throb to her already paining forehead. Juanita turns to hunt for the knife again. 


This time she finds it, in the same place she had looked minutes ago. She begins to dice the beans and carrots in quick, alternating hand movements, her knife smacking the wooden cutting board, making short, smart noises that were drowned by the roar of the thunder outside and the whistling, howling wind. 


Juanita finishes dicing and tips the beans and carrots from the cutting board into the frying pan. It hisses out louder in protest. Juanita ignores it and picks up a fistful of her apron to wipe the sweat from her brow. She opens the faucet and holds the cutting board under the running water for a few seconds. Snapping the tap shut, she takes out two onions and begins to chop them finely, turning every now and then to stir the contents in the frying pan. Once in a while she adds salt and oregano. 


Angry, unwanted tears well up in her eyes as she keeps chopping the onions rapidly. The wind howls and bangs against the windows. The curtains fly askew. Juanita stops only for a second to press her fingertips against her eyes to stop the tears, and resumes chopping. Unfortunately, her fingers were smeared with salt and various spices so here eyes keep watering. She uses her sleeve to wipe it away, but to no effect. 


Regardless of her blurry vision, Juanita keeps chopping the last of the onions. There is a flash of blinding, white lightning followed by a roar of thunder. Juanita strikes her left index finger with the knife by mistake. She jumps, setting the knife down with a clatter. Blood flows out, almost instantly.  She turns to the sink and opens the tap. The drops of red blood drip into the sink, tainting its white stone and disappear instantaneously with the flowing water. She holds the finger under the gushing water. Closing the tap she holds her finger up to examine the wound against the kitchen light. The blood flow resumes again. It is a small cut, but deep. According to Juanita, the blood flow seems disproportionate to the size of the cut. The cut stings, and she remembers that her fingers are still sprinkled with salt. Juanita's eye start burning with hot tears again. 


Outside, the angry clouds give way to torrential rain. It sweeps in through the kitchen window, spraying the kitchen counter and the one half-cut onion lying next to the wooden cutting board. 


Juanita turns to look at the rain, as if noticing it, as if realising she was caught in the middle of a storm, for the very first time. She slowly turns off the gas. She slides down to the floor, her head resting against the kitchen counter. She holds both her shoulders with her hands, yes, even the one with the wounded finger, which was now proceeded to make a patch of red blood against her blouse. 


In the absence of another soul in the house she sought to comfort herself to the best of her ability as she gave into her tears. 


The rumbling thunder has become gentler. The wind is still whistling but at a slower velocity. It is no longer banging against the windows. The rain sprays into the kitchen, touching the top of Juanita's hair lightly, tickling the back of her neck. Trying to caress her and provide her with comfort when everybody else, including Juanita herself, had failed.