Everything is laid out for me to start. If I hurry, I can have the roast done by the time he gets out of the shower.
Finely chop the garlic. I always love the smell it leaves on my fingertips. Wonder if he’ll notice when I put my hand over my mouth it’s to get a whiff of a pungent aroma. Will he catch it if I rub my hand over his head right before he turns the bedside light out?
Cut the tomatoes into quarter pieces. Snack a piece. Sweet. Take another. Succulent. One more. You know he hates finishing his plate alone. Don’t ruin your appetite. Slice the onions. I forgot to buy gum. Does that really work? Cry anyway.
Then I watch my hands tremble as I cube the potatoes. What’s the point in telling him tonight? Give it another week and just pour yourself another glass.
Grab the marjoram, fold the leaves and slice in straight lines. The earth is at my fingertips, will he ever understand this?
De-bone the Bird. I should’ve done that earlier. The oven warms my torso and I puzzle over asking him if he’s going to shovel the snow outside. I hear his footsteps in the living room and I know he’s looking for something. I will not find it for him tonight. Everything got lost a long time ago.
Stuff the Bird. Will this meal be worth having if I’m not telling him tonight? Pour yourself another glass. The snow on the window sill piles on. He mumbles something. I don’t care to decipher the words. I look at the Cabernet and decide to finish it off. Why leave some for him? For the first time, I think I’ll shovel the snow. I might as well get used to doing things without him. I take my glass and head for the basement. I’m not hungry anyway.
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The forecast said there will be 2-3 inches of snow tonight. She laid everything out to prepare their meal. Roasted chicken. She has done this recipe many times. She decides to uncork the bottle of Cabernet first. He always takes long showers anyway.
She minces the garlic, then smells her fingers. She pauses and looks out the window for a while. Her stance is firm, she ran track as a teenager.
Then she reaches for the Roma tomatoes and quarters them. She eats several pieces and looks at the stove to make sure it’s at 450 degrees. The kitchen is small and cluttered with all her cookware. It took her years to accumulate the best appliances she could afford. Her knives are Japanese steel and she always tells her mama to give her new cookbooks for Christmas. She has to use big boxes to pack her kitchen.
The clock on the stove says 9:45 pm and she takes the onions and juliannes them. Her eyes begin to swell.
Her hands shake when she dices the potatoes. As she looks over the food, she notices her glass is half-empty. The Cabernet was a special gift from his parents. She was supposed to use the decanter, but decided it would be a waste of time. His parents deep inside would prefer that she was Jewish.
The marjoram leafs scent the room along with the slight smell of gas coming from the stove. Her favorite way of cutting marjoram is the chiffonade. She hasn’t carved the chicken yet, which she should’ve done first. The snow has reached an inch.
She hears him in the living room pacing back and forth. The sound of the creaking wood is all she tunes into. He says something that she cannot decipher. He must be looking for something. All she can do is stand there looking out the window. She pours the rest of the 2004 Cabernet and watches the sediment cup her glass. Her eyes are still swelling from before. It’s the first day of snow and she decides to go outside.
The Junction Journal 