3 minute read….. He is slicing up cucumber and I am lying on the sofa just listening. He makes our lunch on Saturdays. Saturday lunch has the value of the five dinners I make for us throughout the week combined. I like the break from deciding and preparing. He likes to square up his domestic debt. I am the first home from work Monday to Friday. It’s logic, and we both like logic.
He’s making cucumber and radish with salt, caraway and dill. He thinks there are still hundreds of undiscovered life-changing flavour combinations and that there’s a chance he might discover one – someone who only ever makes Saturday lunch. I go along with it because it brings him so much pleasure to be on the cusp of something huge every week. Sometimes it tastes like arse. But it’s delicious in another way, you know, because he makes it for me.
This one really is delicious. We have it with snob’s bread and fizzy water leftover from a dinner party last weekend that isn’t fizzy anymore.
‘Do you remember when Amy died?’
‘Who’s Amy?’ he says, looking worried that one of us is having a brain malfunction.
‘Winehouse’ I say and he nods and crunches a radish.
‘Yeah. You were putting your shoes on and I read it out loud from my phone. Probably Twitter.’
‘I was heartbroken.’
‘You didn’t know her.’
‘I know but I felt like I did.’
He gets up, tips out our flat water and fills the glasses from the tap. ‘I’m sorry baby.’ He says.
‘You looked after me,’ I say. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’
‘Always.’ He says.
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