Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, I know, they're not mine. But a girl can dream, can't she?
Soul Food
It was the reason I came home every night. Same time, always the same time. I never thought to change my routine; why bother, I'd tell myself, when I like the way it was now just fine?
The Cajun usually called me whipped as I left, musing it under his breath as I'd close the door behind. Don't know if he knows I can hear him plain as day, or if he just don't care. I can only smile with satisfaction as I start out for home; if he knew half the paradise I did, he really wouldn't mutter such things.
It's a short trip. A few minutes on my cycle, a little more in a car. Our apartment is just down the street from the Salem Center, that being the main reason we picked it out. It's the perfect location for us; close enough to be comfortable, but far enough to have our own lives.
She's always home before I am, anyway. Ever since we found out 'bout the baby, she's been takin' it easy. The main reason she's at the mansion at all nowadays been to help out Chuck, with what I don't know (or care, as long as she's off her feet). Most of the day goes by and I don't see much of her; we're mostly on different sides of the house now. That's okay. I can share her with the rest of the world until sun down. After that, I get greedy and she's all mine again.
And every day when I get home, and pull in the cycle to my usual spot, I can look up and see the kitchen light on, and sometimes a blurred figure moving behind the thin curtains. And every day I remind myself we need to get thicker curtains.
As I get near the apartment door, I start to smell whatever is she's cookin'. It's always delicious, partly because I'm dead tired and very hungry from a full day's work, and partly because whatever smells so good is bein' made by her two hands.
She didn't cook much before we got married. Back then, food was mostly taken care of by somebody else. Any cooking was done out of necessity, and was usually the product of peeling back a label and setting it for five minutes. After our wedding, and especially after she got pregnant, she slowly got the hang of it, and turned out to be a great cook.
She never said so, but I got the feeling she kept an eye out for special recipes she knew I'd like. Sometimes, granted, the meals were simple, taking a span of 'bout ten minutes to fix. But the days when she decided to spoil me were my favourite. Really meticulous, time consuming dinners that musta took half the afternoon. She'd rarely ask, "How is it?" or complain about how difficult this and that were to get on the table, like certain women do to amaze their husbands a little more. No, she just cooked, served and let me clean up afterwards.
And today, I followed the same routine, hitching up the bike and checking the window to make sure a light was on. The Cajun had muttered another whipped comment just before the door shut behind me, and the trip home was anything but exciting.
Today, I travelled up the stairs, having a stupid grudge against elevators, and I caught the warm scents of something (I never knew exactly was wait' for me) drifting down the hall. I fished out my keys and slid them in the lock, and placed them in the tray that held both of our key chains. My coat went on the same notch it always did, and I threw my shoes into the corner, like any other day.
"Jeannie, I'm home," I called out as I walked into our kitchen.
I stopped just after the doorframe abruptly. Fresh from the shower, her hair was wrapped up in a towel, and she was wearing one of my old shirts with a pair of worn track pants, and the growth of her five months pregnant belly was just beginning to show. She was flipping some rice in one of the shallower pans, keeping an eye on her three other pots on the stove. She had, somehow, never looked more radiant to me.
She looked up at me with the beginnings of a smile, but it faded as she watched me. "Logan, what's wrong?"
I shook it off quickly, afraid to worry her at all. "Nothing, baby," I replied immediately, wrapping two arms around her belly. "Whatcha cookin'?"
She placed a treasured peck on my cheek. "Your favourite: nothing special." And in one of those rare, perfect, all to brief moments, she rested her head on my shoulder before breaking away and returning to her cooking.
And I knew what a lucky, lucky man I was just then.
The End
Soul Food
It was the reason I came home every night. Same time, always the same time. I never thought to change my routine; why bother, I'd tell myself, when I like the way it was now just fine?
The Cajun usually called me whipped as I left, musing it under his breath as I'd close the door behind. Don't know if he knows I can hear him plain as day, or if he just don't care. I can only smile with satisfaction as I start out for home; if he knew half the paradise I did, he really wouldn't mutter such things.
It's a short trip. A few minutes on my cycle, a little more in a car. Our apartment is just down the street from the Salem Center, that being the main reason we picked it out. It's the perfect location for us; close enough to be comfortable, but far enough to have our own lives.
She's always home before I am, anyway. Ever since we found out 'bout the baby, she's been takin' it easy. The main reason she's at the mansion at all nowadays been to help out Chuck, with what I don't know (or care, as long as she's off her feet). Most of the day goes by and I don't see much of her; we're mostly on different sides of the house now. That's okay. I can share her with the rest of the world until sun down. After that, I get greedy and she's all mine again.
And every day when I get home, and pull in the cycle to my usual spot, I can look up and see the kitchen light on, and sometimes a blurred figure moving behind the thin curtains. And every day I remind myself we need to get thicker curtains.
As I get near the apartment door, I start to smell whatever is she's cookin'. It's always delicious, partly because I'm dead tired and very hungry from a full day's work, and partly because whatever smells so good is bein' made by her two hands.
She didn't cook much before we got married. Back then, food was mostly taken care of by somebody else. Any cooking was done out of necessity, and was usually the product of peeling back a label and setting it for five minutes. After our wedding, and especially after she got pregnant, she slowly got the hang of it, and turned out to be a great cook.
She never said so, but I got the feeling she kept an eye out for special recipes she knew I'd like. Sometimes, granted, the meals were simple, taking a span of 'bout ten minutes to fix. But the days when she decided to spoil me were my favourite. Really meticulous, time consuming dinners that musta took half the afternoon. She'd rarely ask, "How is it?" or complain about how difficult this and that were to get on the table, like certain women do to amaze their husbands a little more. No, she just cooked, served and let me clean up afterwards.
And today, I followed the same routine, hitching up the bike and checking the window to make sure a light was on. The Cajun had muttered another whipped comment just before the door shut behind me, and the trip home was anything but exciting.
Today, I travelled up the stairs, having a stupid grudge against elevators, and I caught the warm scents of something (I never knew exactly was wait' for me) drifting down the hall. I fished out my keys and slid them in the lock, and placed them in the tray that held both of our key chains. My coat went on the same notch it always did, and I threw my shoes into the corner, like any other day.
"Jeannie, I'm home," I called out as I walked into our kitchen.
I stopped just after the doorframe abruptly. Fresh from the shower, her hair was wrapped up in a towel, and she was wearing one of my old shirts with a pair of worn track pants, and the growth of her five months pregnant belly was just beginning to show. She was flipping some rice in one of the shallower pans, keeping an eye on her three other pots on the stove. She had, somehow, never looked more radiant to me.
She looked up at me with the beginnings of a smile, but it faded as she watched me. "Logan, what's wrong?"
I shook it off quickly, afraid to worry her at all. "Nothing, baby," I replied immediately, wrapping two arms around her belly. "Whatcha cookin'?"
She placed a treasured peck on my cheek. "Your favourite: nothing special." And in one of those rare, perfect, all to brief moments, she rested her head on my shoulder before breaking away and returning to her cooking.
And I knew what a lucky, lucky man I was just then.
The End