​014/2012 Dinnertime

Word Count:  338

“A little dry, isn’t it?” he said of the pot roast, and “Another minute would have been good for the beans,” he said.

She said nothing but watched as he ate.

Too many years of worrying. Too many years of undercooked chicken and too spicy stew. Every year, every day, laying on a new blanket of guilt until weary, she lost all ambition to please him. To create him his own perfect world.

Soon the beans and meat were served stringy in the hopes that maybe he’d give up and leave. When he didn’t, she found that he’d grumble but eat whatever she put on his plate.

She started with shoelaces in the spaghetti. Held back a giggle when he devoured the rubber soles of old boots. He grumbled but it became white noise in her ears, a soft constant buzzing that was simply a part of their lives.

He never expected an answer; never carrying his complaints any further than giving them life. For her part she focused on watching him chewing–and chewing, and chewing–instead.

Over time it began to be pleasant. Meals were no longer a stress nor even the blankness of years spent together across a table over food that no longer was anything more than expected, comfortable, routine. This became interesting and she found herself trying out new things. Writing down recipes he seemed to complain less about. And a section, of course, for those over which he complained the most.

One day he came home from the doctor’s with a sad, worried frown. “My polyester count’s high,” he said. “And the doc thinks that rubber is clogging my arteries and I may be at risk for a stroke.”

“Oh, poor dear, don’t you worry,” she said. “I’ll more carefully watch over your diet. It’ll be all natural foods for you now.”

So she cut out shredded shirt salads and the rubber-laced meatballs. Took a saw and cut  down the chair legs a smidge. Served the sawdust Chinese-style like rice.