An Evening Meal

When she cooks for him she commits to the act of cooking for him. She takes the responsibility seriously. Her day revolves around it. At work she compiles a list on her phone of the ingredients she will need. It’s a list she adds to as the day goes on. Wine. Spices. Sea salt (she’s almost out). The thought of forgetting some integral part of the meal worries her. He would understand, of course. Nothing’s perfect, of course. But, nonetheless, she wants it to be good.

After work she goes shopping. Then home. Showers, cleans her teeth, brushes her hair. Kneels in front of the mirror to apply her makeup. Every few minutes she checks the time on her phone. He’ll arrive in an hour. In half an hour. Ten minutes. She puts on lingerie and a gown. She takes off the gown. Inspects herself in the mirror. She ties back her hair.

She pre-heats the oven. He arrives at the door. They’ve been at this for a year and she still gets butterflies right before. Has she forgotten anything? Hopefully not. Too late now anyway. She lets him in, takes his coat and hangs it up and then gets down on her knees in front of him, lowering her head and waiting until he tells her to stand. They kiss.

“I have to be in the kitchen,” she says. “That’s okay?”

He assures her it’s okay. He settles himself at the table in living room and answers emails. He’s quiet. Very still. A presence in her house that she should hardly notice, but which she does notice constantly. Whenever there is nothing to do in the kitchen she floats out to him. She finds things to bring him: a glass of water, a glass of wine. She adjusts the light so he can better see his work. He says nothing, but he does drink the wine. She’s happy at that.

It’s hot in the kitchen. She’s grateful that she’s not wearing many clothes. She checks her reflection in the little mirror on the fridge. Her makeup is still good. Her cheeks a little pink. She drinks a glass of cold water.

Everything is almost ready. She takes out salt and pepper, cutlery, a place setting, a napkin. Back and forth, back and forth. She tops up his wine. She hasn’t drunk any herself. In the kitchen she downs a glass and it prickles on her tongue. She eats her own small meal there in the kitchen while she plates his food. She doesn’t have much appetite. She’s beset by the anxious little puppy feeling again: has she missed anything? Is it good enough? Is there anything else she can do?

She takes him the food she has prepared. A single meal into which she had poured a great deal of effort, aligning everything she can to create a sensory experience that she hopes he will enjoy. She sets it before him and sinks down to her knees beside him. He touches her on the shoulder, once, lightly, before he begins eating.

Kneeling there, poised, head lowered, she feels the anxiety slowly thawing. She should be exhausted. The nervous energy of the last few hours should have worn her out… but it hasn’t. It was hot in the kitchen. Tiring, precise work. Further labour after a day spent at work. But it was leading to this: a half hour of complete calm. Silent, motionless satisfaction – greater by far than if she had made that same meal for herself.

She kneels there. He eats the food that she has made. And, in this way, they are both quietly nourished.