The steam rising from both plates had slowed to a trickle. It rose languidly from the now soggy carnitas, slithered it’s way through the rough chopped romaine, scaled the snowy peaks of craggy feta, finally dissapearing behind the glow of a withered candle. “So much for date night,” I said to nobody, then stood, shaking my head. Would it even matter if she were here?
Canned lights shone down on spotless countertops. My OCD urged me to clear the table as well, but a low burning anger stayed my hand…leaving the untouched meal would be my own personal passive agressive dick slap when she rolled in at midnight. I opened my phone and sent off a quick text: -Thanks for the help Romina, – then headed off to shower.
The bathroom mirrors were just beginning to haze around the edges, when the reply came. I took my hand from the shower door and eyed my phone. Probably my wife, texting to say she’s going to be out late with the girls again, but my curiosity, aka phone anxiety took over, and I checked.
-Hope the recipe worked out well for you. Hope tonight goes even better. Romy-