Shishir 2024 Stories - Christa Lei
Pomegranates
By Christa Lei
Hades and Persephone sit at the dinner table, eating supper at opposite ends of the sleek metallic rectangle. Hades’ midlife crisis caused the subsequent redecoration of the Underworld in various shades of slate, silver, and sable to evoke a more contemporary look. Persephone’s face doesn’t show it, but she mentally thanks Hades for not cloaking the entire Underworld in black.
Once, before the renovation, when the Underworld draped itself in all-black, all-dark everything-- Persephone snuck a Day-Light Seasonal Affective Disorder classic lamp into the guest house (a gift from her mother, but one she welcomed after dooming herself to living with Hades for eternity.)
Persephone's face shows signs of aging: the space underneath her eyes puffs up when she talks, and her smile lines reveal themselves. Persephone knows that her now-taut skin will someday droop, sink and form into weighted jowls, but colours herself shocked that some of the potions she picked up from the Real World work. She’s not already in a state of worn-leather face.
Hades, on the other hand, takes time to cultivate and style not only his house, but also his facial hair. Day-old stubble sprouts from Hades’ still-strongly defined chin. In the time spent apart from Persephone, he learned how to dress himself. Up until last year, Hades wore the same black linen Ionic chiton.
Before the crisis, if Persephone was lucky, he’d at least wear the one spun from silk, or the one gifted to him from some famous dead rockstar from the ‘80’s-- crushed black velvet. Now, he eases into his merlot-colored button-down and dusts off his black slacks.
Hades attempts conversation, trying to show sincere concern for his bride.
“You haven't touched a thing on your plate.”
Persephone's now-dark blue eyes stare into his empty ones blankly.
Of course she hasn't eaten.
Persephone is pissed that Hades doesn't know her by now. Half of the year, she stays with her ill-tempered mother Demeter, who rejoices at hearing the raptaptap of Persephone's knuckles against the door. Once Persephone lugs her empty-- save for major toiletries and her beloved pairs of lacy undergarments and embroidered bras-- suitcases back into her childhood home, she obliges her mother with a hug that ends up lasting what feels like an hour.
Maybe Persephone is starting to love her mother from afar too, she muses. Normally, her dark brown locks revert to their natural almost-platinum blonde once she steps into Demeter’s house. This season, her hair sprouted into a decidedly dirty blonde shade. After all this time, her mother avoids pleasantries, and instead, greets her with a meticulously prepared homecoming feast. This year, Persephone notes that there is something amiss.
“Mom, where are the carbs?”
Demeter takes a mystery dish out of the oven-- the scent of rosemary and garlic mixes with the savouriness of fowl and wafts towards Persephone. The chicken skin comes out a crispy golden hue, flecked with salt, pepper, and a mix of Demeter’s secret herb mix-- the one Persephone knows she uses on her signature ciabatta bread. Demeter quickly turns to Persephone and makes a noise that sounds like a Hm? but Persephone purses her lips and flexes her bare feet on the kitchen’s marble tiling.
“The. Carbs. The herbed ciabatta? Where’s the big pot of chicken and dumplings? The infamous multigrain cinnamon rolls?” A string of saliva forms in the corner of Persephone’s mouth and dribbles down her chin. She wipes the spit with the frayed bell-shaped sleeve’s edge-- she still hasn’t changed out of her long, lacy onyx robes, eager to try Demeter’s feast.
“Oh, yes. That. Honey, I’m trying this new thing. My figure isn’t what it used to be, so your father suggested I try this new diet. The… paleo diet?”
Demeter proudly holds up a thick book and hands it to her daughter. The cover boasts a roasted chicken with a healthy serving of fresh vegetables, and other dishes with nary a grain in sight. Persephone flips through the pages of the cookbook, noticing the lack of carbohydrates.
“The Ultimate Paleo Cookbook? What the fuck is this shit, mom?”
Fists clench tight. The sweat from angry palms cause a large serving spoon to plop onto the ground.
“Don’t use that language with me, Persephone. I am still your mother and this is still my household and you are under my rules.”
“Damn it, mom. Zeus put you up to this?”
Persephone never refers to her father by her real name. She fucking hates him. Namely because he, by a strange twist of fate, is also her uncle, and no wonder why their family is so damn dysfunctional. Zeus, even at his age, wiggles his way back into Demeter’s good graces-- even though he attempts to seduce anything that breathes.
Persephone didn’t know the count as of now, but if she ever needed a kidney-- she had many half-siblings from which to choose. However, Persephone knows her mother can be touchy over matters such as family; the lot of them screwed her over when it came to dealing with the whole Hades debacle. Even now, Demeter tidies the kitchen with pride, but her eyes well up with fresh tears. Her mouth curls up into a forced smile while liquified salt rolls down her cheeks.
“Oh, mother. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re perfect the way you are. Please, let’s just eat. Let’s try the food out. It’s fine. Come on.”
Her mother force-feeds her everything she can manage to whip up from her kitchen stock and in sight. The process repeats itself, but home cooking is a welcome relief for Persephone compared to the stacks and stacks of TV dinners that Hades keeps stashed in their new Sub-Zero fridge/freezer combo. Despite her insatiable hunger, she uses this period to burn off all the food that Demeter cooks.
Hades claps as he finishes up the first plates with a gentle drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and freshly blended pomegranate vinaigrette. “You know I can’t eat.”
Persephone glares at Hades, cursing him under her breath as she uses her fork to poke and prod at the salad he tossed for her. Tiny rubies glisten amongst the heap of emerald, ivory and sardonyx.
“I made them with your favourite fruit,” Hades offers as Persephone sifts through the leafy greens. So he remembers her favourite fruit, but he doesn't remember the fact that she is eternally bound to living here because of it? Persephone stabs the unused silver fork into a bundle of salad and waves it around slowly in front of Hades. Her gaze directly focuses on Hades.
Homecoming dinners seem useless to Persephone when Hades doesn't remember a thing. She scoots the stained African blackwood chair back, stands up and yawns. “I’m sleeping in the guest house tonight.” The brushed aluminium legs screech across the metal flooring, piercing the long pause that follows her announcement. Persephone prefers the guest house over the four-poster bed they used to share.
Share is a bit of stretch though, she thinks to herself. Persephone always builds a partition between them out of extra throw cushions and pillows. Sometimes, she rubs the pillowcases with Cerberus’ favourite dog treats and lures the three-headed pup into their bed. She saunters away, leaving Hades alone with two sets of appetizer salads and two bone-in ribeye steaks (hers: medium, his: medium-rare) waiting in the kitchen.
Hades isn't even angry.
He just wonders why Persephone is acting like such a bitch tonight. He scoops a tiny crimson jewel into the spaces of his fork, cradling it so it won't fall back into the leaves as he maneuvers the fork into his mouth. He takes a few seconds to suck on it, using his tongue to crush the little ruby on the roof of his mouth, grating it against his gums, feeling some of the juice fill his mouth and trickle down his lips as he swallows the remainder of the tart little seed.
He licks his lips and scoops back down into the bowl for another forkful of the seeds. He ingests one after the other, and he feels a slight burn as the seeds touch his mouth, the juices stinging the back of his throat. He keeps eating them.
To Hades, pomegranates have never tasted so good.
Christa Lei (they/them) from US grew up in Hawaii as a fat, neurodivergent, disabled, queer child of the Filipine diaspora. As an emerging writer, their work has or will appear in Breath & Shadow, Carmina, and Vast Chasm, amongst other publications. Christa continues to create equitable, sustainable futures with their spouse and two dogs in New York City. |
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