“Mmm, fuck is this deli”—is that a bone I just chewed?—“Delicious,” I finish after I swallow.

Just then, the doorbell rings, and she gets up to answer it. When she’s back in the house, I quickly search around my food for any burnt hair or bones, and when I come up short, I just realize it’s my shit cooking that’s the problem. I’ve been so fucking out of touch with life that I’ve completely forgotten how to act like a normal human.

I’ve always appreciated everything Myla has done for our marriage, especially with my demanding schedule. When it was break time, I would be sure to help cook, to pick things up at the store, to do something just as simple as rub her feet at night, but fuck, when did that stop?

When did I stop caring?

When did I become so detached from everyday life that I can’t even cook myself a goddamn delicious meal?

Myla approaches while I hunch over my plate like I’m devouring this homemade delight as I watch her deposit a to-go bag from my favorite steakhouse, the very same one I went to yesterday.

“What’s that?” I ask, my eyes zeroing in on what she pulls out.

“I couldn’t get my mind off the steak that fell on the floor yesterday, so I ordered myself another one with potatoes and a side of lobster. And a cheesecake for dessert.”

Goddammit, the cheesecake, like velvet satisfaction for the mouth.

“Well, enjoy. Bet it won’t taste as good as mine.” It actually pains me to lie through my teeth.

“Yeah, keep thinking that. Maybe it will help you choke down the swill on your plate.”

I hate to admit it, but this is swill.

She takes a seat, pulls out her dinner, and then wafts her hand over it while taking a deep breath. “Oh, they have outdone themselves. And look at this butter for the lobster? So dreamy. Lobster on the West Coast really is supreme, don’t you think?”

My eyes narrow because she knows exactly what I think about lobster that is from anywhere but Maine.

“Oh God, just look at this meat? I can’t remember the last time I had this much meat in my mouth.”

Boy, is she ripe today!

“Excuse me if I moan, but I’m going to suck the juice right out of this meat and enjoy this meal.”

I stare at her.

At her exquisite meal.

At the low cut of her tank top that she’s wearing sans bra.

And before I can stop myself, I mutter, “You’re a rotten wench.”

A chuckle pops out of her mouth right before she stuffs it with lobster. “Oh yeah,” she says around her mouthful of seafood. “This is easily the best lobster I’ve ever had in my life. Hands down. No questions asked.”

Yup . . . a fucking wench.

* * *

“Ryot,” Myla shouts from the living room.

A large smile spreads across my face as I know exactly what this is about.