It is always something that keeps them around. Most of the time, it’s the sex. I think he put up with everything for the food, honestly. In the end of it all, there really wasn’t any sex. He was always tired or drunk and I was always mad. He never missed a meal at my table though.
Cooking for one isn’t as hard as everyone says it is. All it takes is a large Tupperware set and a love of leftovers. I really don’t have either. When food molds over and starts turning the colors of his old uniforms, I get nostalgic and chuck them into the garbage can with conviction. Maybe if I throw enough of him away, I can forget.
The microwave buzzes, its darkened window suddenly going dark. The clear plastic’s contents steaming with renewed warmth. Freezing food always seems to take the beauty out of it. The flavors never quite survive being separated, compartmentalized, and frozen in place.
He hated leftovers. I don’t blame him, I was never really a big fan of them either. Luckily, the two of us easy to cook for and there were hardly ever any leftovers to stores. Mashed potatoes were the only thing we stored.
His unit was released early from PT. He came home to shower and get breakfast. I awoke to a tray of potato pancakes and the smell of his deodorant. We sat and ate. He had always been generous with affection and I can remember him sneaking touches between bites. He joked about keeping me at home to raise children. It was one of our better mornings.
The ravioli burns the roof of my mouth and I race to spit it out. The problem with freezing leftovers is what I like to call Hot Pocket Syndrome. When microwaved, the outside parts are extraordinarily hot. The inside is almost always still frozen. I drink water to cool my scorched mouth and dump the rest of my dinner in the trash. Take that. You can’t burn me.