Everyone thinks it’s so great, so sexy that my husband cooks for me.
No one knows the darker truth I deal with.
That man is heartbreakingly slow in the kitchen.
He claims this is because his knife skills are not on par with mine (admittedly, my knife skills are a thing at which others marvel, even as the fear dawns. I wanted to be a surgeon, what can I say?) but before I perish from starvation I want you to know: he dawdles out of malice.
What’s worse? He’ll have no sympathy when I finally do waste away right in front of him. He’ll probably just complain that I’m in the way, or being dramatic, or some such nonsense.
It might not be the spiders that get me after all, my friends… I might die waiting for the best meatballs in the known universe. Which means I’ll be dead and I won’t get meatballs. It doesn’t get more unfair than that!*
ME: How long is this going to take?
HIM: Five minutes per side under the broiler, then into the sauce while I cook the pasta.
ME: (unimpressed) All in.
HIM: Thirty minutes? Forty-five? (glances at clock) Forty-five.
ME: (slumps) I’m going to die of hunger.
HIM: You’re not going to die.
ME: (dramatic gasping, swoons)
HIM: (without looking up) You’re gonna pretend to die…
ME: (suddenly upright) Fuck you. (flounces off)
HIM: (laughing) I love you!
* Seriously, he makes the best meatballs. Which reminds me…