Saturday Dinner Rants

Saturday nights were our kitchen time together. Usually, a man’s presence in the kitchen is rarely welcome, but Amanda, my partner of five years, and I cooked our Saturday dinners together, and always from scratch. We usually bought a takeaway on weekdays, feeling tired after long hours at work.

That Saturday evening, the clouds, like a blanket, hovered above the city, holding in the rain. I saw Amanda’s dress sticking to her back and sweat dripping from her forehead.

‘I just can’t stand the humidity,’ she said, wiping the sweat with the paper towel.

I switched the air-con on, but she kept sighing as we went through the collection of recipes. We cooked the Italian chicken pasta. She read the ingredients; I got them from the pantry and fridge. She boiled water for penne while I diced chicken breast and smashed a couple of garlic cloves, and so it went. We were a team. When we finished, Amanda dished out the steaming hot food into the pasta bowls, and I took them to our dining room.

I’m going down to the cellar to get the wine,’ I called and left.

On my way down, I heard thunder echoing in the distance. I grabbed a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, our favourite, and started up the stairs. Amanda was on the phone; I heard her laughing. She ended the call as I opened the door, and we sat for our Saturday dinner. All was good. I poured the wine, and we dug into our pasta. The lightning zig-zagged the sky, and thunder felt closer.

I talked about my problems at work, winged about the long hours I was putting into a project doomed from the beginning. Often I got into those rants, and Amanda listened, massaging my ego with some comforting words. But not tonight. She became quiet and focused on the food. Not once she lifted her head to meet my eyes, but I continued blaming my boss for the project’s failure and the world for the rest of my work-related and other problems. The sudden ringing sound of her fork against the bowl made me realise she wanted my attention.

‘I thought you’d want to hear it,’ I said. Her insensitivity hurt me.

‘I’ve heard it so many times. It’s always the same.’

‘But you always help me, and I feel better.’

Amanda didn’t respond to my flattery, but leaned against the back of her chair, watching me.

‘I am sorry, but it will be no more,’ she said.

‘What will be no more?’

‘The Saturday dinner rants,’ she said and leaned forward, staring at me.

‘What do you mean, no Saturday dinner rants?’

‘There won’t be Saturday dinners, is what I mean. I am leaving you,’ she said.

And she’d meant it. She left me.