Precious, precious,preciouswife.
Malcolm
Mywife. Marrying Azalea was easier than expected, but you won’t find me complaining.
Chipper, I stand outsidemy wife’sapartment door with my dinner and my bribe, waiting for her to come greet me. The moment the white haven opens, presenting my angel and dove amid the clouds of her feather-soft decor, I hold the wrapped double chocolate brownie out to her. “For you. Your favorite.”
She flinches, staring dead at theotherthing I’m holding, which is my dinner. “I’m not going to share food with you.”
“Did we, or did we not, agree to torture?”
Her gaze skids, even as she slips the brownie from my fingers and steps aside to let me in. “I don’t…recall.”
I take my shoes off and enter her pristine space. “That’s okay, because I do. You said, very clearly,Please torture me, crow. I long for nothing more than abuse at your hands.”
“That…” She sighs, trailing to her kitchen, “…doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“Character growth has a way of making us sound both the least and the most like ourselves.” I find a seat at the bar counter and set my food down in front of me on the bleached marble.
Dazed, Azalea goes through the motions of heating up a meal of flat noodles, carrots, and tofu. As she does, heat rises to her cheeks, painting them in remarkable crimson hues. Inevitably,she begins stealing glances of me and my plate of steaming roasted veggies.
Potatoes. Brussels. Carrots. Broccoli. Oil and garlic and a splash of herbs to liven them up.
Needless to say, I conspired with Birch for a recipe thatleaned veganand swapped out the butter for olive oil and the meat for air, because I wasn’t about to try and make tofu ortextured proteinon my first foray into rabbit land.
“Dove.”
She jumps, jerking her attention off me and squarely back onto her food.
I ask, “Are you only avoiding animal products because of mental reasons?”
Her back stiffens. “I… Yeah. But also I’ve been vegan most of my life now, so I don’t know if I have the right enzymes to process meat or dairy anymore.”
Duly noted.
I’m glad I found out I was morally against slipping a little somethingagainst her rulesinto my food on the off chance I actually get her to take a bite or two. Something about crossing that boundary felt neither helpful nor kind. And while I won’t profess to be either of those things, I do profess to love her, so I’m unwilling to completely abandon a sense of humility.
Some of her stuff is cut-and-dry lies.
But not all of it.
And it’d be poor form of me as her husband to approach this delicate matter with only arrogance. Especially if I’d like her to learn to trust me more than she trusts her own head.
Once her food’s heated, she slips into the seat on the complete other side of the island counter, even though I’m certain her usual place is dead center.
Staring across the gorge, I say, “What? Do I have cooties or something?”
Daintily, she dips her chopsticks into her bowl and pinches a single carrot slice. “You have short hair.” She takes the bite. “On your face.”
“You don’t like my stubble?” I pierce a potato with my fork. “I’ve always thought it makes me look rather dashing.”
Her gaze levels on me, staring hard, and I know she’s trying to decide whether she finds medashingor not. At long last, she determines her opinion. “I think you’d look at least thirty-four percent less evil without it.”
“Never shave, got it.”
“I don’t know how you can stand it.” She secures a noodle with her chopsticks and inspects it avidly. “It’d drive me mad.”
“Oh. Maybe that’s why I’m nuts. You think if I shave, I’ll regain my sanity?”
