It was Tuesday night, the date night, the expensive dinner night.

The night when we would allow ourselves to use cheap wine for the sauce, two teaspoons of truffle oil - the bottle of which we had bought two months back and it still served us till this day because of how sparingly we used it - and some mediocrely-lavish pieces of meat or fish. The night when we would sit by our coffee table with the lights dimmed and nothing playing in the background. No music, no movie, just us.

I picked two skirt steaks that I intended to briefly marinate in soy sauce, four minced cloves of garlic, black pepper that I had freshly ground, dill that I had chopped, salt, a bit of lemon juice, a bit of chili powder, and a single teaspoon of truffle oil before putting them on a blazing hot grilling pan for a minute a side. They would cook themselves to perfection while they rested from the residual heat.

But before I even put them in the pan, I prepared a quick rocket salad. Chopped cherry tomatoes, shaved the remainder of our parmesan that had occupied our fridge for a concerningly long time, freshly squeezed half a lemon, and another teaspoon of truffle oil to finish it off. No balsamic dressing because Lea hated it.

She opened the door to our little apartment in the shadiest of neighborhoods because that was the only place that we could afford. Her lips met mine, and she let me inside. "How’s work?" I asked, seating the backpack at the kitchen counter.

"Ah, you know. Usual. Nothing special," she said while disappearing behind the corner. — "How about yours? Did you stab someone today?"

"I wanted to. I really wanted to." We were now shouting between the rooms, she from somewhere in the living room, me in the kitchen, unpacking the wine and steak I had bought.

"How did the service go?"

"The new commie's such a pain in the ass," I said, preparing all the things necessary for the steak marinade and getting the kitchen in order.

"The douchebag asked me if I had any band-aids because he burned his finger."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah. I told him to tough it out."

"Poor guy."

"Thanks."

"I was talking about him, you ass," I heard her laughing now. She had the cutest laugh where she giggled like a little girl, and I adored it.

"He’ll learn. Or leave after a couple of weeks like the rest of 'em," I smiled under my nose at the noise of a chuckling kid in the living room. — "Ehi, dove sei? Vieni ad aiutarmi a preparare la cena, amore!" I said, asking her where she was and to help me with the prep.

"Still not there yet, angelo mio." She was Italian, and I wanted to impress her. Unfortunately for me, my time for learning was limited to listening to a vulgar neurotic Italian chef I worked with. He was the line cook at the not-so-fine dining place I worked for. Despite my young age, I was already a Sous-Grillardin - a second broiler chef - meaning I was responsible for anything that had to do with fire. Lea said it suited me.

"Wait!" she jumped from around the corner when I was about to open the cutlery drawer. She was hiding something behind her back. — "How about you try these, chef?" I didn’t know what it was at first. I was too focused on admiring her beautiful cheekbones and deep emerald eyes. — “I know it’s early," — she referred to my upcoming twentieth birthday. — "But you’ll be working on Friday, and I thought that since it’s our night…”

I finally moved my attention towards the package and saw a tall, rectangular bag, a knife roll, made from dark-brown leather, a cherry ribbon rosette around it.

"Lea, you didn’t." She stood there, blinding me with her pristine whites. It was too heavy to be just a knife roll. It had blades inside, and I was terrified about how much it must’ve cost her. We were dirt poor, and every single penny we had we used to pay for either uni or our flat just so that we didn't have to share it with anyone else.

I tore the ribbon and carefully placed the package on the counter. I spread it out and saw the handles of four blades inside, and just by looking at them, I knew how expensive they were because I recognized their shape, characteristic of one of Asia’s top bladesmiths.

"You’ve got to be kidding me." It was one of the Japanese vanadium steel knives. It must’ve cost her a grand, easily, and to us, barely struggling, hustling our way through life, it was a fortune. -- "Is this why you worked overtime these past three weeks?" I asked, fighting off the burning in my eyes.

"You’re not a commie anymore. You need to have your own set." She approached and cradled my face in her hands. -- "I am so proud of you." She gave me the purest of smiles. I hugged her and hid my face in her little shoulder.

"That’s not everything. Look inside the pocket." Her eyes were shining. — “It’s so that you have something to hang onto if you burn your hand or someone stabs you with a knife. I know it’s cheesy, but—"

"It’s not." I couldn’t stop looking at the little Polaroid showing our picture from the trip to the mountains we once took. I was kissing her forehead, and she was leaning towards me, a big smile on her face. We were fifteen back then and already deeply in love.

"I love it." I said, kissing her, just like in the picture. God, I loved her. And it wasn’t just because she had presented me with the most beautiful gift I had ever received in my life. She was the kindest, purest, and most wonderful person I had ever met in my life.

I wanted to try out the knives so badly, until she grabbed my hand and led me towards the bedroom. I was absolutely, completely, and unquestionably fine with putting the dinner on hold.

Obviously, I didn’t know that my life would turn to shit in the coming months. I didn’t know that my career as a struggling chef, working my way through law school, would be short-lived. I didn’t know that I would be recruited to an international intelligence agency. I didn’t know that I would lose Lea. I didn’t know that it was the start of the end of me and my happiness.