Duck

CW: domestic violence

It was Thursday.

Jasmine hated Thursdays.

Her pulse began to quicken as she padded across the slick marble floor of the kitchen. Thursdays were predictable now. Usually predictable comforted Jasmine, she liked knowing what to expect. But just this once, she was hoping for a surprise. You never know, after all unexpected things happen all the time. Perhaps he would change his mind. Perhaps he would choose something different this week. Perhaps the store had run out and he had to get something else. It could happen.

Jasmine reached her hand out, gingerly grasping the cool steel handle of the refrigerator door. She paused a moment, her hand frozen without action while her mind juggled with the question of how best to open the fridge door. Would it be better to opt for a slow and gentle approach? This would subdue the clanking of condiments in the fridge door, but would extend her anxiety for a few moments longer. That would hardly be ideal.

Instead, she could opt for the hard and fast option. This would cause a ruckus among the small jars and bottles, and may even cause the entire contraption to wobble on its stumpy feet. However, it also meant that she would know what lay behind the door quicker, even if it wasn't what she wanted it to be.

Grasping onto the handle firmly, Jasmine wrenched open the door to the fridge. As predicted, a cacophony of rattles greeted her, and within split second her eyes landed on a small item resting on the second shelf.

Jasmine's heart sank.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she took in the sight of a small brown package nestled in amongst the carrots and onions. The delicate white yarn holding the package together and the cheery sticker on its face did little to endear the package to her. She knew exactly what was wrapped beneath the tight brown folds.

Duck. Again.

Five weeks in a row the same brown package had appeared in the same position in her fridge, waiting on her to take it from plain fowl and turn it into a heavenly delicacy. And each time it had appeared on Thursday.

Prior to the sudden, and then consistent, appearance of duck in her fridge, Jasmine had no particular feelings about Thursdays. They were simply another day of the week, filled with the normal weekday tasks. Early morning run, breakfast, see the husband off to work, cleaning, housekeeping, planning, organizing, lunch, afternoon cardio, shower, preparing dinner, welcome husband home, and then whatever her husband decided the evening may hold. Now, in addition to those tasks, Thursday was synonymous with dread.

She just couldn't get it right. The first time she had opened the fridge to the sight of the little brown package, she was intrigued. She had eaten duck many times before in restaurants and at dinner parties, she had even had it served at her own wedding. But she had never cooked it herself. It was a small thing, not at all like the time her husband had brought home a collection of Cornish game hens the day before their annual New Year's Eve party. Now that had caused her a mountain of grief, both before and after the party. She had burns on her hands for a good week following that adventure. Surely duck would be easier than that.

The first week she had severely undercooked the duck, a thick layer of duck fat, which she would later learn should have been rendered, was left sticking to the meat. She could see the disgust in her husbands face at the squelching noise it made when being cut. That had been an unpleasant evening.

The second week she had been so nervous about that fatty layer still clinging to the meat, that she had dried out the duck completely, making it a chewy mess. The sticking sound of the meat in between her husband's teeth made her stomach drop. Another Thursday that she did not like to look back upon.

The third week she had been so focused on the proper cook of the meat itself, she had neglected to add the wine to the cook pan and the fat burned up in the oven, pouring out smoke into the house. Her husband had come home to the earsplitting sound of fire alarms going off and the sight of Jasmine waving around a towel to clear out the smoke with tears streaming down her face. The tears shed that night had not ended there.

The fourth week was her closest attempt. She had gone with a low and slow method, carving out 3 hours in her day doing nothing other than watching over the duck. She followed every step exactly as written, timing, rendering, and temperature checking constantly. She was about to bring the bird out to rest when the whirring sound of the front gate reached her ears. She looked frantically at the the clock, he was 30 minutes early. He stepped into the kitchen smiling, the smell of the duck must have already reached him, he thought she had finally gotten it right. The smiled quickly fell at the sight of the bare table and oven mitts on her hands.

All she had needed was 20 more minutes and it would have been perfect. If he had come home on time the table would have been set, the duck and the vegetables and the sweet glaze would have been ready and waiting for him. He would have licked his lips loudly and rubbed his stomach the way he always did after a good meal. He would have smiled and tousled her hair, and she wouldn't have to be on edge for at least an hour. She would clear the table, put away the extras, and clean the dishes in solitude. What followed after that she could never say, but the evening had a better chance of calm if the meal had gone over well.

But it hadn't mattered that he had come home early and it hadn't mattered that the duck was nearly done and nearly perfect. He had, and it wasn't, and it wouldn't be because by the time he was through with her, the alarms were going off again. The duck had burned and it had all been for nothing.

Jasmine absentmindedly tugged at the Velcro strap holding her wrist splint together, a nervous habit, the sound of which drove her husband crazy. She really ought not to do it at all, best to break the habit when she was alone so as not to slip when he was around. She had learned that lesson early on.

The fridge made a clattering noise, complaining about being open so long and losing its precious air. Jasmine closed the fridge door softly and laid her head on the cool surface, trying to calm the flush she could feel rising from her neck to her cheeks. After a moment she sunk to the floor, her back resting against the softly humming refrigerator. Why did he keep bringing duck home? Surely he did not enjoy eating what she presented or coming home to a smoke filled house. No it was not that part he enjoyed.

Jasmine knew she would need to begin preparing dinner now if she had any hope of getting it right. From her place slumped on the floor she began to think though each step of the dinner preparations, pulling at the Velcro at her wrist loudly with each step.

Riiip... First she would have to get the crock pot from the cabinet.

Riiiiip.... then chop the vegetables, carrots first, then onions.

Riiiiiiiip... then take the wrapped duck out of its package...

Jasmine thought and ripped through the entire dinner, complete with which napkin would be set alongside the gold rimmed plates her husband had given her for their anniversary. She had it all perfectly planned to the minute so long as she started right away.

Five minutes passed, each with their own rip of Velcro. Jasmine wasn't sure why, but she hadn't been ready to move yet. That was alright, she could skip the rose fold on the napkins. It would still be a lovely dinner if she started now.

Riiiip...