It’s not that he’s always late, she thought. It’s that he never really seems in a hurry to get home—even when traffic’s bad.
The blue porcelain bowl was wet in her hands, and she dropped it into the strainer. She’d been home a half hour already and had wondered where the time had gone.
You hang up your coat, check your voice mails, and then open the fridge to decide what to eat for dinner. Some nights it’s stir fry, and sometimes it’s just pasta because all you have to do is dump some spaghetti sauce in a pan on low, and wait for the noodles to boil—maybe throw spinach in there to make sure there are vegetables.
She hadn’t gotten that far yet. And he hadn’t come home or called to say that traffic was bad or that he was working out at the gym across the street from his office before he came home. Sometimes, he said that’s what he was doing.
Pasta? Tonight? God. If he said anything, I could tell him he should get home sooner to help me. Our commutes have been the same distance for a couple of years now. Maybe he should be the one to throw something on the stove. They had pasta only three nights before, and she didn’t want to hear him complain or even wonder if he was withholding a groan about the recycled menu from last week. She decided on tuna.
Tuna. What a female food, she mused, as she pulled down the two cans of fish-in-water from the pantry shelf. For some reason, tuna is a woman’s food. Most men hate it, she continued, this time broadcasting her thoughts aloud to the empty home. Maybe they’re afraid to admit they like it. They are afraid. They are afraid to say they like the scent of it, because that’s always their chief complaint. All of the jokes spring from that one thing. Continue reading “A Preview of “The Fault””