Tomahawk hypnotizes me. It enchants me. I go shopping for vegetables and shrimp but then see a tomahawk steak showcased at the meat department and come to a dead stop. I stand still and look at it for minutes. At its price. At its enormous useless bone, for which I will pay the price of meat. At its gorgeous marbling. At its 2 inches of thickness.
I imagine how I carry it to the red hot grill
and hold its bone with my two hands,
and hear how it starts hissing immediately,
and we plop down into our patio chairs,
and pour a couple of glasses of good wine,
and take the first sip with an exhale of relief,
and watch how the beef fat melts and burns,
and the flame licks the sides of the beef,
and the primal smell of grilled meat spreads around,
and we admire our tomahawk while it’s resting,
and then share it,
and at first, we eat it like two well-mannered adults — with a steak knife, a fork,
and a glass of wine,
and say no way we can finish it,
and then we pass the bone to each other
and gnaw the remains, tearing them with our teeth,
and laugh,
and take pictures of each other,
and make faces snarling like animals,
and wash it down with more wine,
and talk about everything in the world
and what happened during the day,
and cicadas buzz loudly,
and the stars shine,
and we finally are in the cool, cool, cool of the evening,
we are home,
together.
And I buy the steak.
