Cooking by the light of the fridge
The fridge door is open and the light escaping from the bright interior casts an ambient wash over the dark shapes of the kitchen. He is peering at a cup, sluicing it under the cold water of the running tap, the splashing droplets hitting the dishes piled in the sink. It's been at least four months since the bulb in the kitchen last shone. I joke with him that he keeps it dark so he can't see the work that needs to be done.

We sit down at the glass-topped table, the metallic debris of nuts and bolts pushed carefully to one side. The cork escapes the bottle with a hushed and rounded 'pop' and I fill his tumbler and the one surviving wine glass with merlot. I idly push a tiny piece of drilled metal around in circles, listening to the ringing as it settles on the glass surface. He's telling me something that he's passionate about. He's passionate about so many things. I'd like one of them to be me.

When his friends are here I don't have any status. Here, I'm defined by my role in someone else's life. I absorb the conversations, I find them interesting, but I am never asked for an opinion. I don't think they know what I do or how I spend my days. It makes me feel faded, like I don't have any substance. It's good listening to them talk; I've always liked enthusiasm. Sometimes I join in. I ask questions, not because I want to be part of the conversation but because I genuinely am intrigued. No one ever asks me anything though.

I like him because he talks. I spent so long with men who didn't. It makes a change for me not to be dominating a conversation. It's a novelty. When we first got together we would fire wonderful, furious words at each other, indignant at how our views were so disparate and at odds. Now though, my confidence has been knocked. It frightens me a little, this dark and creeping thought that he will reject me and claim he doesn't need me in his life. I steel myself for it and that saddens me because it means my guard is up and I'm holding back.

I have known him to be so kind with me. I am, on occasion, treated tenderly and with affection. I remember him curled around me in the long grass, bathed in sunlight and the rush of the river, flowers standing brightly sideways when I opened my eyes, neither of us talking, just savouring every perfect movement.

The pasta is boiling over. I can hear the hiss of the water as it foams onto the electric ring. I negotiate my way through the door and into the darkness lit only by the angry glow of the hob. As I lift the pot from the heat I hear a noise behind me, and the seal on the fridge door breaks as it swings open and light floods the kitchen. I feel his hand lightly, gently on my shoulder and he takes the saucepan from me and carries it to the sink.

Later, I watch him sleep, curled away from me, the raised knots of his vertebrae shadowing his skin. I pull the sheet up to cover his shoulders and I close my eyes and dream of lightbulbs and their steady, constant glow.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 16:33, Reply)