Page 47 of My Veteran Biker

"It's dry. I left it in too long."

"It's fine."

She portions out the food, and I pour water for Jim, iced tea for Francis and myself. We've done this every Sunday for three years.

Since we got married. Since Jim moved in six months ago when living alone stopped being possible.

The first ten minutes are quiet. Just the sound of forks on plates, Jim's occasional grunt when his hands won't cooperate with cutting meat.

Francis reaches over and cuts his roast into smaller pieces without being asked. He doesn't thank her. Doesn't need to.

"Clint's daughter sang at church this morning," Jim says. "Little Ava. Has perfect pitch, that one."

"She's seven now," Francis says. "Not so little anymore."

"Still little to me." Jim takes a bite of potato, chews slowly. "Your mother would've liked her. She always wanted grandkids."

Francis's fork pauses halfway to her mouth, but she doesn't say anything. We've had the grandkids conversation. Not happening. We're both fine with it.

"You remember that apartment we had?" Jim says, looking at me. "The one I told you about? With the bathroom so small you had to step in the tub to close the door?"

"I remember."

"Your mother used to say it was good practice for marriage. Learning to share small spaces." He smiles slightly. "This house is bigger but the principle's the same. You're doing good with the small spaces."

"Thanks, Jim."

"I mean it. Not every man would take in his wife's dying father. Most would've pushed for a nursing home."

"You're not dying," Francis says.

"Frannie, we both know I am. Just taking my time about it."

She sets down her fork. "Can we not do this tonight?"

"Just stating facts. I'm allowed to state facts at my own dinner table."

"It's not your dinner table. It's ours."

"Semantics."

They bicker back and forth and I eat my dry roast and listen to them do this dance they've been doing for six months. Francis pretending her father isn't declining as fast as he is, Jim refusing to pretend.

Both of them stubborn as hell.

Jim reaches for his water glass and his hand shakes badly enough that I can see it from across the table. He tries to grip it but his fingers won't close right. Water sloshes over the rim.

I reach over and take the glass from his hand, set it down, use my napkin to wipe up the spilled water.

The whole thing takes maybe five seconds.

When I look up Francis is watching me.

Something passes between us across three feet of dinner table and six months of this routine and three years of marriage and four years since that first dinner when I did the exact same thing.

Jim clears his throat. "Thank you."

"No problem."