Page 87 of Untying the Knot
Control your temper, man.
Her eyes blink in confusion. “Eating the steak you brought me.”
“Brought . . . brought you?” I ask. “What makes you think I brought that home for you?”
Her confusion morphs into defense as she straightens her shoulders. “Well, you left it on the counter and then retreated to your room. I just assumed you were done with it.”
“Because I wanted to change out of my suit,” I say, my voice rising.
“Oh, well, you should have put it in the fridge or something rather than leaving it in a neutral zone. I got you those blue Post-its for a reason.”
“I didn’t think I had to use one,” I nearly shout.
She rears back and points her fork at her chest. “Are you really shouting at me right now? It was an innocent mistake.” She shoves the to-go box toward me. “Here, eat it.”
I shove it back at her. “I don’t fucking want it now.”
“From the drool in the corner of your mouth, I’m going to say you’re a goddamn liar.” She shoves the box back.
“I don’t want this.” I push it harder.
“Well, I don’t want it now either,” she says, shoving it harder than me.
“Ohhh, no, you’re going to fucking finish what you started. Eat it, eat every last bit.” I toss it at her now, the potatoes—the ones that are left—jiggle in the nearly empty to-go box.
“And watch you have the satisfaction of attempting to make me feel guilty? No way.” She pushes the box toward me, but I stop her, gripping the other side.
Together, we push.
Our eyes simmer with rage, and our mouths curve in discontent.
Tempers rise.
Nostrils flare.
Necks become blotchy.
And then . . . the container puckers.
Bends.
It buckles . . . and before we can stop the inevitable, it pops up and out of our hands from the pressure of our pushing.
And in slow motion, the container flies into the air, steak and potatoes parachuting into the tension-thick air and falling to the floor with a loud, resonating splat.
“Wow, look what you did,” she says, motioning to the food on the floor. “That was a perfectly good steak.”
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t get to have a bite,” I snap through clenched teeth.
She holds the fork out to me. “Well, help yourself. Not sure the last time those floors were cleaned. Enjoy.”
She turns and walks toward her bedroom, leaving me with the mess.
Head pounding, my stomach ripping with hunger, I pick up the steak, thinking that maybe it might be okay, but when I spot a long piece of hair sticking to it, I lose my appetite instantly. Fucking food waste only adds to the anger coursing through me.
I consider ordering something, but it’s already late, so I go into the pantry where I grab a protein bar, a bag of Dot’s pretzels, a banana with a blue Post-it note on it, and a beer. It’s not steak and potatoes, but I try not to focus on that.
Arms full of food, I walk out to the patio, set everything down, and reach for my TV remote, only to realize it’s not working.
