It’s the Little Things

I have such a complicated relationship with food. Part of me loves it, part of me hates it. I hate thinking about it, I hate how I feel after I eat too much, I hate that I use it to comfort me when I am feeling out of control. I love cooking though, I love thinking about recipes and creating truly delicious meals and above all I love cooking for those I love. I love those happy sounds of approval when something is really fucking good.  I find I have been filling the emptiness with fast food, partly out of laziness partly out of comfort seeking. I’ve grown to dislike Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s. The time apart from our happy life to be here in this dismal apartment sucks. I don’t cook so I eat out. I loose control some nights and order way too much. I’ve done it so often now that I can recognize the approaching binge. I feel it that terrible combination of lack luster will to do nothing mixed with the sadness of going back. I felt it rearing tonight. Driving home thinking “what the hell  should I eat before bed?” The only solution being Jack in the box because  nothing is open. I manage not to stop on my way to her place to pick up Ollie but I still know I will later. I reach the front door and step into her place. There she is, bathed in the golden glow of the lamp rocking in the chair we picked out together, the deep v of her dress exposing the side of her full breast, reading. She smiles in greeting but doesn’t pause from her book. I find myself drawn to her side, my lips placed against her temple. She says “there’s food for you in the microwave”. I’m shocked. I’m sure to her it’s not a thing, no big deal and yet I feel both undeserving and immediately excited. She cooked! She cooked for me! She made me a plate! She thought of me! She knew I would be hungry after work and saved me a plate. In so many peoples world that isn’t a big deal. But as I took that plate and sat next to her I felt giddy. Giddy and full of love. I felt undeserving of the thought behind the saved plate. I felt so fucking loved I could cry. She isn’t a cook, she isn’t as in love with food, but that was the best meal I have ever had. I can’t even properly express what it means to know she loves me enough to cook and put a plate aside for me. I know it sounds silly. I spend so much time cooking for others, thinking about their likes and dislikes. How to express my love into the meal. No one cooks for me. Not without asking. And yet here she is my perfect future wife. That plate not only saved me from self hate later but filled more than just my stomach. I will be sustained off this memory for some time. I love her so much! I want to live that meal over again knowing it was made by her hand, that she thought of me in that process. I will love her for the rest of my life and beyond.

Nena