Silas had been in charge of dinner since he married Lily seventeen years ago. Lily didn’t cook; she would’ve lived on Pringles and wine if he let her. She would go a full day without eating like it was nothing. Silas couldn’t do that. He loved dinner in particular. He centered his day around it: what he would cook, what he would need to make it perfect. He thought about it at work; he thought about it on Sundays when he made sauce and packed extra Tupperware for the kids to bring to the neighbors. He took a swig of his beer, and let the bitter aftertaste linger on his tongue.

Silas was the kind of man who took pleasure in the little things. His father had been the same way. His brother, Philip, was the serious one. Silas watched Sean sometimes and saw Philip in him. It made him both proud and nervous, seeing his older brother’s face in his son. He saw him most in some of Sean’s sideways glances, the way he watched more than he spoke.

Soon the whole family would be going to New Hampshire. Silas had been going to his New Hampshire house since he was born. He saw Lily naked for the first time in the third-floor guest room when they were sixteen, touched her until she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. He reminded her of that every summer, lingering in the doorway, thinking maybe the memory would raise something in her. It used to. Silas thought about it as he stirred the pot. When he felt himself getting hard, he took another sip of beer and willed the thought away. He didn’t know when he started to associate desire with shame, but somewhere along the way, they had become deep, disgusted bedfellows. He never felt one without feeling the other.

Lily would be home soon. They would eat dinner, and he would tell her about Mickey’s new friend, the one who pantsed a boy on her behalf, if Mickey didn’t tell her herself. He thought Lily would like that story, but he wasn’t sure. Silas felt like he was getting to know his wife less with time. He didn’t know how that was possible, but it was. When they were kids, he always knew what she liked, how to make her smile or laugh or storm off. He knew all of her buttons and how to push them just right. Now he wasn’t as sure.

He brought the spoon to his mouth.

“Perfect,” he said to the empty kitchen.

PEYOTE