French Toast and Lemons

Everything is
just too damn much. What little I can make out of my short stories in the
occasional contests or interested magazines just isn’t cutting it. Daniel’s
grappling for all sorts of different jobs nowadays but what with the economy
not doing so hot, it’s getting tougher. They say money can’t buy happiness but
it sure as hell helps. All of this stress is making both of us crabby. Daniel’s
been irate with me lately and I find myself snapping at him too.

Sometimes I
think about the first day we met, back when I was in college and he still had
no idea what he wanted to be. Something about that, that he didn’t have a care
in the world, didn’t fear anything. Something about that perky attitude he
always had, how he’d laugh at my lame jokes and stay up all night listening to
me read my stories out loud until the sun came up. Something about him just
made me happy.

It’s hard now,
looking at him with his back turned, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of
our world is being crushed on his shoulders. It is, I realize. We can barely
scrape by our rent for the apartment. His palms are rested against the counter,
his fingers are clenched. I think his body is shaking, that maybe he’s crying,
but he’s silent. If he’s crying, he doesn’t want me to hear.

I feel strange
watching him now. It feels as if I’m trespassing, like watching the raw
emotions take control of his body is wrong. Maybe it is wrong to see someone
like this. I know what I should do: I should step as softly as I can toward him
and wrap my arms around his waist, and tell him everything’s going to be
alright. I should tell him that I’ve finally found my inspiration for my book
and that Cindy can finally get a stable job for him.

I don’t do any
of these things. Saying all of that would be a spider-web of lies, a snare of
false hope. Even trying to console him feels wrong. I should say something
though, shouldn’t I? Anything, instead of watching him suffer in our kitchen.
My lips part and I go to speak but he jerks upright again. His actions are
almost angry as he grabs for a frying pan.

When he turns
around, he freezes and looks at me. He wipes his thumb over the corners of his
eyes. “Hey you,” he says and feigns a weak smile. I return it and sit down at
our kitchen table. The rickety chair shakes and I grab the edge of the table
before I lose my balance. He goes back to whatever he’d been planning on doing
before he’d realized I was there.

Before I know
it, the smell of maple syrup and cinnamon has filled the kitchen. He grabs two
plates and slides a couple of French toast pieces onto each plate. After
setting down the food onto the table, he gets some water from the filter and
pops a slice of lemon into the glasses.

I wait until he
sits down across from me before I pick up my silverware. It’s at that moment
when we both look up, and my eyes meet his and his meet mine, that I realize, everything may be
alright after all.