I carefully place his plate on the table and take the sit to his right. It’s Wednesday and that means spaghetti, but carefully tailored to his preferences—meatballs from scratch, easy on the Worcestershire, fresh garlic. He bought me a pasta roller and cutter last year, and it’s a time consuming task, but I agreed with him that it’s far better than what I previously purchased in a box.
He says grace. I unfold my linen napkin and wait for him to take a bite.
“Why isn’t the Parmesan shaved?” he asks.
“I’m sorry, I forgot to buy a block,” I say.
He chews thoughtfully.
“Did you make a list, Kate?”
“I did, yes. I was in a hurry at the store, and I just overlooked—“
“Fine,” he says and he waves his hand dismissively.
“I’m sorry.”
“The pasta is not bad,” he says, “and you can scoot under the table and make my dinner better.”
I look at the plate in front of me, then back to him.
“Now, Kate. You can eat later.”
I push back my chair and lower myself to the floor. He opens his legs and I settle in between them, unbuttoning his belt and button.
“Slowly,” he says.
I take him into my mouth. I listen to the clinking of his fork and knife.
“I know what will improve our marriage, sweetheart,” he says, “It occurred to me today. Before you, I might spend an hour, sometimes longer, looking at pornography. Touching myself.”
“Mmpf.” My chin is soaked and my knees begin to ache.
“And I don’t do that anymore, as you know. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
I keep a slow pace.
“But I need more attention, more love, more of your time. From now on, I will let you do this—good, Kate, all the way down now—for a couple hours each day.”
I gag and push down again.
“When I’m eating. When I’m reading. Before I fall asleep.”
My jaw. My knees. My throat.
“Are you tired already?” he asks.
I nod, not daring to take my mouth away.
“Lower, then,” he says, “When you’re too tired to do it properly, go lower. No, keep going. Get your tongue in there, Kate.
And look, now I don’t mind eating your mediocre dinner, darling.”