Why dont you ask me what Id like for dinner? Harry asked as he slipped out the front door for work. Or does it not matter to you anymore?
I was going to wing it and make something of my own choosing, Emma replied, feigning indifference. But if you prefer a specific dish, just say.
Thats not the point, Harry said. It isnt about want or dont want. The very act of asking is what matters. Is it hard for you to ask? Arent you curious?
Honestly, no, Emma answered. It doesnt pique me at all. Whats there to be interested in?
Oh, come on! Harry exclaimed. Weve gotten used to it. You used to ask. Apparently it used to be interesting!
Emma paused, a thoughtful frown forming.
Hmm, she mused. Its true, I did ask before. It got a bit awkward, didnt it? I should ask again, or else well never get it sorted.
What do you want for dinner? she asked.
Harry gave a wry smile.
A little favour, he thought. All right, I wont be a nag or a pickyeater. After all, marriage is a complex beast built on compromise. Ill be gentle and easygoing. Im no tyrant, and I ought to forgive my partner. Otherwise how can we consider ourselves decent human beings?
Fine, he said, condescendingly, Ill have meatballs.
Which meatballs? Emma prompted. Pork, lamb, beef? Want me to do fish balls?
Any but fish, please! Harry snapped. Are you joking? You know Ive hated fish balls since I was a lad.
Emma winced.
Im off my game today, she thought. Hes reminded me a dozen times how he choked on fish balls at nursery. Im sick of his tragic fishball childhood tales. I need a new angle, otherwise hell keep bringing them up all week. And dont forget he detests custard, too.
What about a side? Emma asked. Potatoes, pasta, rice? Maybe some buckwheat?
Fry the potatoes, Harry instructed. Just fry them, dont stew. I want a crisp.
Of course, love, Emma said. Ill give them a good crust.
Im not worried, Harry replied confidently. I have no cause for concern. You should be the one worrying.
Harry wondered why hed said it.
Trying to show my superiority, perhaps? I overstepped. What for? I still have a lot of personal work to do before I can call myself a proper gentleman.
If it isnt too much trouble, darling, Harry softened his tone, could you whip up a little salad with tomatoes and cucumbers?
Certainly, love, Emma replied warmly. Ill get right on it.
Add garlic and dill, Harry reminded.
Garlic and dill, Emma echoed, smiling.
And a dollop of sour cream.
With sour cream.
And the potatoes, too, with dill, Harry added, and a bit of onion.
Everything just as you like, dear, Emma promised.
After a friendly goodbye, Harry left the flat. All the way to the office his mind kept circling back to Emmas odd behaviour. He couldnt quite pin down what felt off. At work he drifted through the day, absentminded, his thoughts glued to his wifes strange mood.
Right, Harry told himself, Ill have a serious chat tonight and sort this out. Maybe Ive actually upset her without noticing. Ill fix it while theres still time.
Later, seated at the kitchen table, Harry poked at his meatballs, potatoes, and salad with a fork, watching Emma gleefully devour a plate of fried chicken. She drenched it in tomato sauce, took big bites, grinned, and winked at him.
Wait a minute, Harry said, why are you eating fried chicken instead of the meatballs?
I simply craved fried chicken for dinner, Emma replied. When you mentioned meatballs I thought, No meatballs, yes chicken, with tomato sauce. I fried it with garlic. If only you knew how delicious it is. Is there something you dont like?
No, its just Harry was a little crestfallen. I assumed wed both be eating meatballs.
Sorry, Emma said, mouth full of chicken. I just wanted everyone happy. You eat what you like, I eat what I like. Isnt that grand?
Funny, Harry murmured. Can I have some of that chicken too? Watching you tuck into it makes me hungry.
No, Emma answered. I only made the chicken for myself. The meatballs, the salad, the potatoes, everything with sour cream are all yours. Enjoy, love. Bon appétit.
But you still have that whole chicken leg left, Harry pointed out. Ill share the meatballs with you.
Thats mine, Emma insisted. I cooked two legs for myself. I dont want the meatballs. You eat yours.
Harry ate his meatballs, eyes fixed on Emma as she relished the second chicken leg, snapping off huge, tasty pieces. The meatballs got stuck in his throat.
I deliberately overfried the chicken, Emma noted. Wanted the crust to be crunchy. Pure bliss! If only you could taste it.
I can imagine, Harry whispered.
He gave a goofy grin as he finished the last meatball.
The next morning, as he headed out again, Harry glanced at Emma.
What would you like me to cook for dinner, love? Emma asked.
Fried chicken, Harry said confidently. I dreamed about it all night. Make it exactly as you did for me, no side dishes, just the sauce.
Alright, darling, Emma replied.
That evening Harry ate the fried chicken, but without appetite. Emma, meanwhile, was wolfing down a hearty lamb stew right in front of him.
Its best when its piping hot, Emma announced cheerfully. I could eat it forever. Ive loved lamb stew since I was a child.
All week Harry endured a parade of culinary surprises from Emma. Yesterday, for instance, she served him fried sprats.
I want some fried sprats too, Harry whined.
Why didnt you mention it this morning? Emma asked, puzzled. I was actually preparing cutlets for you.
How was I supposed to know Id want sprats? Harry replied. A hint would have helped.
I hadnt even decided what Id feel like later, Emma admitted.
Just give me a bit of sprats, Harry pleaded.
No way, Emma said firmly. What am I supposed to eat? Your cutlets? No thank you.
The following dawn, as Emma saw Harry off, she asked again what hed like for dinner. Harry shook his head.
No thanks, he said. Youve had enough fun teasing me. Cook whatever you like for yourself and make plenty of it.
From that day on, Harry never told Emma what he wanted for dinner again.
