Yesterday at 7:10 p.m. I decided to become a real adult. The kind who cooks dinner not from yogurt and cheese but from actual meat.

In my fridge there was a turkey leg. Big. Impressive. Like my expectations from relationships.

I found a recipe:
marinade, garlic, mustard, spices, 180 degrees.

Twenty minutes later a strange smell came from the oven.

Not delicious.
Not aromatic.

More like someone melting fat in the apartment next door.

I opened the oven. The turkey looked suspiciously shiny and slightly threatening.

Then someone rang the doorbell.

My neighbor.

“Excuse me… is something burning here?”

I answered honestly:

“No. This is my romantic dinner for one.”

He laughed.

We talked about cooking. Turns out he’s a chef.

Of course he is.

The universe clearly wanted to demonstrate my incompetence.

He said:

“If you want, I can teach you how to cook turkey properly.”

My ex-boyfriend couldn’t even make tea.

And here is a man rescuing my turkey.

But considering my relationship history, I decided not to get excited.

First he saves the turkey.

I'll have to save my personal life on my own.. 😄