Asklipiou Recipes

Nicola and I have this strange habit, perhaps it's better to call it a hobby. Because a 'hobby' is fun and a habit is something usually not fun, or like smoking, only a little bit fun and with a larger downside.

I will tell you about our hobby, but first let me tell you about us.

We met overseas while we were both surviving as remote nomads in Athens. She’s a graphic designer who works from the kitchen table; I’m a freelance copy editor who pretends the deadlines aren’t killing me. We met at a bookstore closing sale four years ago, argued over the last copy of a Kawaguchi novel, and somehow ended up 'remote nomad married' — we share charging devices and know each other's passwords.

We live together in a first-floor apartment on a quiet street in Pangrati, the kind of area tourists wander through and never visit again.

No children, no pets. So we need to find other ways to keep ourselves occupied.

Some people go surfing at dawn.

Some jump out of airplanes.

Some go to motivational seminars and lay in open graves to feel alive.

We have our own thing.

Every other Friday, while I venture out to pick up the week’s groceries, Nicola gets prepared for murder.

In Athens, there is a line of shops on Asklipiou Avenue, just below Mt Lycabettus, which sells every diabolical artificat ever made. Nicola buys handcuffs and rope, and this week a gun. She must have obtained a license from back channels.

I'm thrilled this week because it's her turn.

Turning around the corner on Melisou Street returning to our apartment, I'm sure I hear a gunshot.

I rush home, and not knowing what emotional state Nicola will be in, I unlock the flat quietly. The lights are off except for a lamp in the living room. I can already smell the faint metallic tang of blood before I even turn the corner.

My skin turns cold when I see her sprawled over the rug in front of the coffee table. Head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes half-open and glassy. A dark pool of red spreads from underneath her shoulder; a knife lies inches from her limp hand. She’d even knocked over a vase, shards and water everywhere. It looks like there was a struggle. A burglar in Athens is a real possibility; I should have installed CCTV cameras a long time ago.

I stand in the doorway for a long second, trying to figure out how Nicola met her demise. What exactly happened.

Then I step forward.

“Nicola?” I say her name with the shock or someone who has lost their soul mate. My voice cracks just enough.

No answer.

I kneel beside her, touching her cheek. Cold. Her chest doesn't move.

I press two fingers to her neck. Nothing.

Something has gone terribly wrong. My heart starts pounding.

For a moment, the room feels too quiet. The noise outside fades. I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Is someone else in the apartment? I look behind me. Nothing.

Then I lean closer, checking for breath.

She explodes upward with a shriek. “Got you!”

I fall back on my heels, almost passing out from dizziness.

After I regain consciousness, I find myself laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

She is already sitting up, wiping fake blood from her chin, grinning like a kid who’d won at a board game.

“Killed by a burglar! You screamed twice,” she says. “Twice! I counted.”

“The broken vase was a nice touch,” I manage between breaths.

“Improvisation! And you took longer than usual to check on me.”

“I was savouring it.”

She crawls over, still half-covered in red syrup, and kisses me.

I murmur, “I’m so happy you’re still alive.”

We sit there on the floor amid the mess, breathing hard, hearts racing with fake terror.

“What if the neighbors find out?”

“What if they call the police?”

“That would be so fun!”

“Next week, it’s my turn next.”

She nods, eyes bright. “Make it good.”

We clean up together, order takeaway souvlaki and eat it on the balcony, watching the lights of Athens flicker below like stars.

No one besides us would understand. They’d call it weird, morbid, a cry for help. But for us it’s the opposite. Each Friday reminds us what the alternative would feel like. We stage the worst thing imaginable so life feels more valuable. We pretend to die to remember how to live.

Next Friday, when she walks through the door, I’ll be waiting.

I’ve already bought the deep fryer that will overflow.