We were fifteen minutes short of having a nice meal. Dal, rice and three kinds of vegetables. Then Mark, who had been difficult since I arrived from work, not looking at me or saying hello when I arrived, deliberately burning the rice in an effort to prove I was neglecting him, talking over the six o’clock news so I couldn’t listen, moving the beans I was cutting out of reach, complaining that there was water boiling with nothing in it, challenging me to prove we had enough pans to cook everything, commenting snidely that if I were making all this food it was clear that I wasn’t planning to wash up, putting things on the stove unasked with no idea what my plans were for them and moping when I took them off again, until finally, ostentatiously throwing out the vegetable scraps he knew I was saving, finally he achieved victory. [a moan, a reprimand] “Mark!” Confirmed in his status of injured victim, triumphantly shouted at me that I need to empty the worm composter. I turned and walked out.
We were fifteen minutes short of having a nice meal. It’s now spoiling on the stove.
Fifteen minutes.
(Mark just announced that he had sacrificed an evening out with friends to stay home with me, and that I should be displaying more gratitude. (Really, he shouldn’t have.) And pointed out that I started it.)