Why dont you ask me what Id like for dinner? James asked as he slipped on his overcoat and headed for the train. Or has it stopped mattering to you?
I thought Id just sort something out myself, Claire replied, her voice flat. But if youd prefer me to be specific, just say.
Thats not the point, James said, his tone sharp. It isnt about wanting or not wanting. The very act of asking is what counts. Is it hard for you to ask? Dont you find it a little interesting?
Honestly, no, Claire admitted, eyes drifting to the kettle. Theres nothing intriguing about it. Whats so fascinating?
Oh, come on! James snapped, his nostrils flaring. We used to talk about this. It used to matter!
Claire lingered on his words, a frown forming.
Hmm, she thought. Its true, I used to ask. It got awkward somewhere along the line. I should ask again, otherwise it just hangs in the air.
What do you want for dinner? she asked, trying to sound casual.
James smirked, a flicker of mischief in his eyes.
A favour, is it? he mused. Fine. I wont be a nag or a tyrant. After all, marriage is a delicate dance of giveandtake. Ill be gracious, a compliant husband. Im not some abusive brute; I must learn to forgive. Otherwise, how can we claim any dignity as people?
Very well, he said with a patronising sigh. Ill have meatballs.
Which meatballs? Claire pressed. Pork, lamb, beef? Or shall I whip up fish cakes?
Any, just not fish! James blurted. Are you mocking me? You know Ive despised fish cakes since I was a lad.
Claire winced.
What am I doing today? she wondered. Im so scatterbrained. Hes reminded me countless times how I choked on those fish cakes at school. Im tired of his endless lament about his miserable fishcake childhood. I must steer this away, or hell harp on it all dayno, all week. And, of course, he hates jelly as well.
What about a side? Claire asked. Potatoes, pasta, rice? Maybe some buckwheat?
Fry the potatoes, James instructed. Just fry them, not boil. Give them a crisp.
Of course, love, Claire replied, smiling. Ill give them a golden crust, dont worry.
Im not worried, James said confidently. You should be.
James cursed internally.
Why did I say that? he thought. Was I trying to prove Im superior? I overstepped. Theres still a lot of work to do before I can call myself a proper gentleman.
If it isnt too much trouble, darling, James softened his tone, could you make a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers?
Absolutely, love, Claire said sweetly. Ill get right on it.
Add some garlic and dill, James reminded.
Garlic and dill, Claire echoed, her lips curving.
And a dollop of sour cream.
Sour cream, indeed.
And fry those potatoes with a pinch of dill, James added, and some onion.
Everything just as you like, love, Claire assured him.
They exchanged a tender goodbye, and James stepped out onto the bustling streets of London, his mind replaying the odd tension that had settled between them. At work, his thoughts drifted back to Claires behaviour, leaving him vague and distracted all day.
Right, James whispered to himself, glancing at the clock. Tonight Ill have a proper talk. Maybe Ive hurt her without noticing. Ill sort it out before it gets worse.
He sat at his desk, poking at his meatballs, potatoes, and salad with a fork, while watching a colleague devour a plate of fried chicken drenched in tomato sauce, laughing and winking at him.
Hold on, James said, pausing. I dont get it. Why are you eating fried chicken instead of the meatballs?
I fancied chicken tonight, Claire replied, sauce glistening on the bite. When you mentioned meatballs, I thought you didnt want them, so I went for chicken with garlic. Its delicious, isnt it? Do you not like it?
No, its just James felt a sting of disappointment. I thought wed both have the meatballs.
Claires eyes softened.
Sorry, love, she said, mouth full of chicken. I wanted everyone happy. You eat what you like, I eat what I like. Brilliant, isnt it?
Funny, James murmured. Can I have some chicken? Watching you enjoy it makes me hungry.
No, Claire replied, wiping her hands. I saved the chicken for myself. The meatballs are yours, as is the salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, garlic, sour cream, and the fried potatoes. Dig in, darling. Bon appétit.
But theres another whole chicken leg right there, James protested. Ill share the meatballs.
Its mine, Claire said firmly. I deliberately cooked two legs for myself. I dont want the meatballs. Have yours.
James ate his meatballs, eyes fixed on Claire as she tore into the second chicken leg, each bite succulent, each chew a reminder of his own lingering hunger. The meatball clotted in his throat.
I overcooked the chicken a touch, Claire noted, proud of the crisp. Youd love the crunch.
I can imagine, James whispered, a foolish grin spreading as he finished his last meatball.
The next morning, as he prepared to leave, James stared at Claire.
What should I have for dinner, love? she asked.
Fried chicken, James replied firmly. I dreamed about it all night. Make it just as you did last time, no side, just the sauce.
As you wish, love, Claire said.
That evening, James ate the chicken, the taste flat, his appetite gone. Across the table, Claire tackled a steaming lamb stew with gusto.
Its best when hot, she chirped, spoonful after spoonful. Ive loved lamb stew since I was a child.
For a week, James endured a parade of culinary surprises: yesterday, she served fried sprats; today, she promised pork chops. He found himself pleading for the sprats after a brief taste.
Why didnt you mention it this morning? Claire asked, bewildered. I was planning to make cutlets.
How was I supposed to know I wanted sprats? James complained. A hint would have helped.
I hadnt decided either, Claire admitted.
Give me a bit, please, he begged.
No way, she snapped. What am I supposed to eat? Your cutlets? No thanks.
The following dawn, as Claire walked James to the tube, she asked again what hed like for dinner. He shook his head.
No, he said. Youve nothing else to offer, love. Enough teasing. Cook whatever you intend for yourself and make extra for me. The more, the better.
From that day forward, James never again told Claire what he wanted for dinner.
