Microwave Dinners

  I gripped the glass of wine, so tight that my knuckles were turning whiter with each passing second. The faucet was dripping, like it usually did. The ice maker pushing out more ice, causing a loud rattling sound from within the freezer. The microwave flashed 7:48 in neon green numbers. Same sounds every night, right at the same time. Some consistency, at least.

By 8:17, the garage door was groaning open, and a minute later I heard him open and close the door to the house, casual and unhurried. Every night, I wanted to say something, make him hear me or see me, but I knew he never would, it wouldn’t be different.  

“You’re late,” I said. My voice not cold, but tense and tired. I’d been sitting in the wooden chair for over three hours, having eaten my food and drank my fair share of the expensive red wine he brought home from some fancy vineyard in France. One of his business trips that no doubt was filled with both business and pleasure.

Footsteps moved from the mudroom to the office, where the thud of the briefcase being set down sent shivers down my back and made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. I can’t believe I even got dressed up for this. I guess when I first planned this night all those days ago, I thought it would be something special, I was expecting this dinner to be a fresh start. I was a fool. I knew I was, for thinking tonight would be different.

-

No, I had had dinner hot and fresh right at 5:30, when he should have been home. I waited until the food stopped steaming before I cut off some of the rosemary crusted chicken, filled my plate with mashed potatoes and broccoli and brussel sprouts. Tonight, tonight was going to be different, he had promised me. Yesterday morning, he had held my face between his hands and looked so deeply into my eyes I believed him. As he kissed away the loose tear from my cheek, he reassured me one more time before kissing my forehead and leaving for his overnight trip. If he kept his word, maybe it would have been. His different was better than my different, for him at least.

I honestly wasn’t planning it, but once I got up and placed my dinner in the microwave to bring it back to life, I got tired of waiting. Three minutes wasn’t too long, but it was long enough for me to realize that tonight would be my kind of different. As the loud signal filled the empty house, I brought my food back to my place at the table, set it down, and walked into our bedroom off the kitchen. I rummaged through my top drawer, pushing away the lace and elastic until I felt the small knot of wood at the bottom. I pushed it and the bottom of the drawer came out, revealing a small hidey hole. I knew he didn’t know about the spot, but the world felt lighter and I breathed better when I saw the little brown envelope still tucked away safely inside.

My food was still giving off steam as I walked back into the dining room, Lionel, the mountain of fluff cat that had been the keeper of many secrets for this house for many, many years, weaving between my steps. Opening the envelope, my chest was tightening and nerves fraying with every step as I neared the head of the table. Before I could think about it anymore, talk myself out of it again, I emptied the powder into the glass that was opposite mine, the red-as-blood wine immediately absorbing the fine substance. I closed the envelope and placed it next to my plate.

I set the napkin on my lap and picked up my silverware before digging into my still warm food, drooling a little as the steam wafted under my nose. I winced as I moved my left arm, my flesh still tender and blooming with various shades of blues and purples. I enjoyed my food, taking my time eating it. Tonight, for some reason, the chicken was extra juicy, the brussel sprouts extra good, and the wine oh so sweet.

I took my time, digested with another glass of wine, before getting up and washing my plate. The little brown envelope came into the kitchen with me, and as I held it held it under the running water, it dissolved, spinning down the drain, no sign that it was ever in my hands.

I made him a plate, putting it in the microwave once I dried my hands. I didn’t start it yet, not knowing when he would come back. I turned off the light in the kitchen, the green numbers glowing 8:01 at my back. I sat and waited at the dining room table for the third time tonight.  

-

Finally, he came out from his office, walked across the dining room, more like stalked, like I was his prey. He still hadn’t acknowledged me, and I let the silence stir while he sat down, smoothing his napkin over his lap.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my right leg over my left, wine glass gripped with white knuckles. I was unnervingly calm for the situation - I knew I should be a nervous wreck, but I wasn’t. Tonight would be different.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, picked up his wine glass, swirled it to see the run, and took a sip. “Dinner?” He asked, his voice gruff and sour and heavy with musk. I looked him up and down slowly, calculating. As I got up and started the microwave, I leaned against the counter, staring at the back of his head as he took another sip. I decided not to mention the pink smudge I noticed on his light blue collar, the faint smell of daisies, or the phone on the counter next to his keys that was lighting up every other minute with a text from Ashley, thanking him for another night of fun. A flight notification thanked him for flying out of Miami even though his business trip was supposed to be in Pennsylvania.

The patches of violet and blue that covered my body started to burn. I put a hand on my cheek, remembering how he said tonight would be different, he would make it special for our anniversary. The same cheek that had burned and stung time and time again, he was so gentle yesterday. But I only remembered the fire, now. Tonight was different because I let it consume me, the fire. When I took the plate out and it burned my hand, I grabbed it with the other, fingers gripping the hell-hot plate.

I set it in front of him as he took another sip then cleared his throat. I draped my arm over the back of his chair and kissed his head, right where his hair met his forehead. I whispered something in his ear, sweet nothings, and as I walked out of the dining room, into our bedroom, I didn’t turn back as he coughed. I didn’t know if it was shock that I was so open, so sensual just then, or if it was the wine talking. I didn’t look back either way.

I slept well that night, dreams of fire and water and how both could build and destroy, natural and fierce. How water could rinse away ash and dust. When I felt the sunshine streaming through the translucent white curtains, I smiled before I opened my eyes. It was warmer this morning, and I knotted my silk robe, petting Lionel. He jumped off the bed as I walked out into the kitchen, putting on the coffee and sliding a slice of bread into the toaster.

I walked through the foyer, passing the dining room as I went to collect the newspaper. Waving at old Mr. Decker, I tucked it under my arm and went to prepare my coffee, a splash of extra creamer this morning. I smeared jam on the golden bread and carefully carried the mug of steaming liquid to the dining room, where I sat and leaned back, right leg crossed over left, the paper open on the table.

“I should have asked if you wanted any,” I said quietly, with a mouthful of toast, eyes on the paper.  I read another column before looking up, just as I had last night. I licked the corner of my mouth, getting a speck of jam that had gotten there. I did it slowly, meeting his eyes. Lionel hopped up onto the table, feasting on the now cold chicken from last night’s dinner that was still on his plate.

One last secret for my fluffy confidant to keep.