The chicken breasts in my hand drop to the display in their cling-film-wrapped tray. “Sorry?”
“I found you somewhere to stay,” he repeats. “If you’re ready to leave.”
My eyes glaze over. I stare at the labels on the packages of meat, but nothing registers. Noise mutes around me while I retract into my thoughts.
He found me somewhere to stay.
I can’t get past the fact he went so far as to do that.
“Are you going to tell me what you think?” he urges.
“I, uh . . .” What? Am too much of a coward to try? Am I too beaten to think for myself? Don’t believe there’s a happy ending to my story? “I mean, it sounds wonderful, but—”
“—you’re afraid to. I get it. Maybe I should have talked to you about it first.”
I pick up the package of chicken again, and place it in the trolley. “Even if you asked first, I would have said the same thing.”
He looks over the meat as I watch him. I can’t tell from the expression on his face if I’ve insulted him by saying ‘no’, or disappointed him. Either would be as bad, so what does it matter? He picks up a tray of steak, and hands it over. “This looks like a good deal.”
I take the offered meat, and our hands linger for a moment. Instead of looking at what he passes to me, I make a mistake—I look at him. Our eyes lock, and I can’t look away.
“Jane?” What the?
My flesh pebbles, and I drop the meat into the trolley as fast as my neighbor releases it.
“Is he bothering you?” Dylan steps up, and places a possessive arm around my shoulders. Why is he here? Why today?
“No, not at all,” I stutter.
Neighbor looks us over, and turns his focus to Dylan. “Your wife here reached for the same steak as I did. I was simply letting her have what she wants.”
The double innuendo isn’t lost on me. Like the way he hissed ‘wife’ through clenched teeth wasn’t either.
“You don’t look like you’re doing any shopping,” Dylan scathes. “Where’s your basket?”
“Where’s yours?” Neighbor snaps back.
I stiffen in Dylan’s hold, ridiculous thoughts racing through my head, telling me Dylan knows everything; that he knows where Rocco is.
“Anyway, all yours now.” Neighbor takes a step back and turns, heading farther into the supermarket.
“I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” I tell Dylan while he drops me like a hot potato.
“Broken cooler in the butchery,” he replies in dull notes.
Dylan walks away without so much as a ‘see you tonight, honey,’ or a peck on the cheek for his adoring wife. What a fucking farce that would have been. I stand and watch him walk across to the deli, and talk to a woman who lets him behind the counter.
“Hey, Jane. Long time, no see.”
“Hey, Patrick.” I smile forcibly as Dylan’s work buddy passes by with a toolbox, and presumably parts for their job.
Damn Dylan doing industrial fridge repairs. Damn me for telling Neighbor to meet me at the usual supermarket.
Damn me for saying ‘no’.
I carry on my way, equal parts angry, and feeling cheated. Neighbor passes me by several aisles later, carrying a loaf of bread, and a bag of dog food. He doesn’t say a thing—only eyes me with what I can place as a mixture of pity and contempt as he passes by.
I finish my shopping with a familiar sense of loneliness. Once again, my life is hollow. Once again, I’m on my own.
Once again, Dylan won.
THE GRAVY is on point, the meat tender, and the vegetables smell divine as the steam wafts from the water I pour down the sink. He may not deserve it, but when a home doesn’t bring an ounce of joy, a person can start to find happiness in the most mundane of things.
Dylan’s car pulls up the drive as I reach for the large spoon to dish up the peas. This can go one of two ways: either he’ll sulk in the door, and grunt when I ask how his day was, or he’ll flip the switch at what he saw at the supermarket, and my efforts at preparing a tasty dinner will go to waste.
Given that it’s been a little more than a week since I had trouble getting out of bed without pain, I’m going for option B.
The front door slams into its enclosure a little too hard, and my reflexes have me half a foot off the floor. The pace of my heart is only matched by the pace of his words as he mumbles to himself, flopping down in the armchair, and immediately switching the sports on.
God, I hope his bloody team wins tonight.
I go about my business, setting the table, and plating our meals. He coughs, and smacks his lips loud enough for me to hear—his not-so-subtle way of saying he’s waiting on a beer. I open a cold one, and place it on the table with his meal. After last time I fed him in the lounge ending with the food on the floor, I take my chances at the table every night. I walk to the door that connects the dining room with the living room.