every day you promise me dinner
every day you say it's about what i want
every day you make steak.
i don't mean you have to make it
i don't mean i have to make it
i don't care if we make it together
but i have to eat.
she used to like to cook
i thought she liked to cook
she would say i love to watch you eat
there would be little garnishes on the plate
now there's nothing.
he never told me when he was hungry
he never told me the food was good
he never said thank you
i stopped cooking.
he can get his own food, i don't care.
i'm too tired to cook, she says, or worse:
i'm not hungry.
he stops at a subway on the way home
or mcdonald's, and it's not on the way home at all
out of the way and he hopes nobody sees his car
something quick, something to tide him over
and he comes home to responsibilities and anger
and they sleep clutching the edges of the bed.
eventually he starts working late
ordering in or going out
and it's not just for sustenence,
like he said it would be because he needed it
but one day he realizes he's savoring the food
the textures, the colors, the smell
the way it makes him feel
she goes out with her friend
and starts talking about the meals he used to make for her
the effort he used to make,
the textures, the colors
her friend touches her hand, briefly, only
briefly, "i could cook that, i think."
and she's hungry again, for the first time