He cooked for me, you know. This October, when he fetched me from the airport.
“Let’s have breakfast. Do they charge for corkage here?”
They didn’t. I ordered hot tea for me and an iced chocolate drink for him. He brought out two plastic containers filled with spaghetti, and then a third filled with bread sticks. He then brought out two sets of colorful utensils – two plastic spoons; two plastic forks.
“I ate my lunch at my work station so that I could buy the ingredients for this. I cooked this after work at the girls’ house. I told them you just threw random stuff into your frying pan so I wanted to cook for you this time. And you know how costly airport food is.”
“I know. Aww. Thank you.”
“And I bought this, too. Tada! It’s really yum.”
“Carrot cake! I’ve been craving for something sweet all week!”
“There you go. Cravings satisfied.”
I had found myself moping because he only gave me flowers that one time. But as I chewed on the spaghetti, as I took a bite from the cake, I realized how incredibly loved I was.
“Is it good?”
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