Call Me, I'm Dying

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Every year on the fifth of June we pretend we’re married. This year is no different.

I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.

“I’ll get the soup,” he says, getting to his feet.

Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.

I don’t know, I’m guessing. I don’t cook. I don’t want to cook. I’m not paid to cook.

James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.

Doesn’t bother me.

I’m easy, so they say.

The food is a bonus.

Makes the sex easier.

* * * *

7:16 p.m.

“You need a hand?” I ask him, knowing how he’ll reply.

I’m dandy.

Sure enough. From the kitchen: “I’m dandy.”

He’s not that.

Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and he’s wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.

Could have made an effort.

We’ll shower later.

I always insist on that.

* * * *

7:17 p.m.

He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, I’d ladle it out in the kitchen.