He watches her take what she needs from the fridge. Turns the page of his paper with a snap. He shifts in his chair so that it scrapes across the tiles. Lifts his cup. Sets it down hard. Watches her vertebrae shift.
She cradles two lemons in her hand. Tucks paper-wrapped fish under her arm. She stretches up for the butter grabs a bottle of wine. Hears the sounds of his anger. Ignores.
He scans the paper. Sees but doesn't read. Broods. Begins to simmer. He ignores her ignoring him. So he thinks.
She heats oil in the pan, a wedding gift. Seasons the fish. Smells the lemon. Pulls the cork and pours one glass of wine. She'll teach him what happens when he forgets.
He dwells on her bad temper. Her childishness. Her too high expectations, that shrill note in her voice when she's pissed at him. He stands and pours himself a glass of wine. Angles himself against her. Smells the fish fry.
She drops asparagus in the steamer. Turns the fish. Hears it sizzle. Begins to weaken.
He bites his lip. Debates. Feels reluctant. But he's also sorry. A bit.
She can't quite do it. Takes two plates from the cupboard instead of one. Breathes through her nose. Lifts the fish from the pan. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Grips the plates.
He goes to her side. Puts his hand on her back. Bows his head.
12 October 2012
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