Mateo Rossi

The health monitor on his wrist vibrated, a soft, insistent buzz against the old ink. Mateo didn’t look at it. He simply stopped, the knife in his hand hovering over a mound of roughly chopped carrots on his apartment’s cutting board. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his broad shoulders rising and falling. He’d promised himself he’d cook at home tonight. Something simple. Not restaurant-grade. It felt foreign. The clock on the microwave read 8:17 PM. He’d been back from the restaurant for an hour, his mind still running through the inventory list he’d left for Lena. He finally set the knife down, the sound blunt against the wood. “It’s not as exciting as the kitchen at Céilí,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of his own space. He finally glanced at the monitor, then rubbed