A quiet dinner.

She threw the jean with the belt hung on it, entered the kitchen and anticipated for last night's beacon to have vanished. The damp, unhappy fridge effected her mood drastically to her surprise. The husband wasn't home, and she was going to eat dinner alone. Again.
She tied her shirt up into a naught over her waist that had now gained a few layers of fat, after marriage. The husband called them his exclusive love handles. It didn't sound half as ridiculous when he said it as it did in her head, now.
She scooped some jelly and quickly gulped it down, as if guilty about her eyes watching..
Women, women ; She could almost imagine the husband snickering. She rolled her eyes at the solitary house who'd been her companion for the past month, while the husband had a secret affair with his Office desk, his files, and the tender submission. She sighed.

She put on the old Steely Dan record and started swinging to 'Home at last' while soaking some beans into the red bowl. She noticed a crack, and immediately a flash of irritation crossed her. Just how many times had she asked him to not enter the kitchen. Almost all the utensils had a crack here, a chipped end there. His careless approach to everything annoyed her, but three years of marriage had taught her the hidden vow of compromise, to let things pass and come in terms with the fact that she wasn't living alone anymore, that she couldn't have the wall hanging on the north wall because his Elvis poster had always nested there, that the curtains could not be the color of cherry, and that the shoes had to be kept outside the house, even though there was a cupboard inside which was now a home for the empty beer bottles which came from the weekend parties with their friends.
Yes, she did learn that she wasn't boss anymore,and that they had a mutual contract now.

She picked up the book the husband was currently reading. She was surprised to see it was one of her Sidney Sheldons. She smiled. It was the same book she couldn't stop talking about for weeks after her read. The same book he had sworn to not read so as to not contract the annoying disease of verbal book worm diarrhea, he had said!
The book mark was a coffee cup stain on the 87th page.
Yes, marriage had also taught her imperfection. Sweet, very sweet imperfection.

She bit her tongue as she remembered she hadn't checked her messages, she hopped to the brown coffee table and punched the red button and the messages started playing one by one...and as the track 'Peg' started playing, she sat on the dinner table, poured herself a glass of wine and chewed on her salad and waited for the husband to come back, loosen the blue tie and wink at her rushing to the shower... and while she imagined all the minute details of her daily life, the last message, dated three weeks ago, on the answering machine said ;

"Maya.. I'm so sorry.... about Rishi's sudden.. death. We want you to know that he was a good man, a lovely man. And of course a fantastic husband. We're all there for you, darling. Just a call away, you must know..."


She stood up and walked to the phone quietly, unplugged the answering machine, and went back to her dinner.


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Awaiting feedbacks as always!
Love,
Nil.