I blink, as if coming out a trance.
I carry the Lexan to the cold shelf and slide it in, standing there for a moment with my hands on the cold metal, letting it cool my palms. I roll my shoulders back.
Head back to my prep counter.
It’s going to be a long day.
64
James
“Come on, cat, you have to eat.” I frown at a listless Malice.
She’s curled up on the barstool that my wife preferred to sit on when she had her breakfast. She’s missing her.
So am I.
It’s five days since Harper moved out of my penthouse. I have tossed and turned each night, unable to sleep. I miss her terribly.
I’ve taken to hugging the pillow she slept on, so I can smell her. I’ve taken to wearing her hair ties on my wrist while I’m home, so I feel close to her.
"That’s the second meal in a row you’ve missed." I scratch her under her chin.
"What if I gave you extra-fine pieces of the Grade-A Bluefin tuna as a special treat? Would you eat then?"
Her ears perk up.
Taking that as a yes, I head for the refrigerator and pull it out. It’s not yet time for her treat, but if it gets her to eat, I’ll be happy. I slice up thetuna carefully and serve it to her on the pre-chilled saucer next to her still full food bowl.
She sniffs it and demolishes the slices. When she licks her mouth and stares at me, a warmth creeps into my chest.
Before my wife, I didn't react in such a visceral fashion to situations. I couldn't name the feelings that arose in me. Now, I let the moods come. Accept that I control nothing. Not even what my cat eats. Or when.
I cut more of the tuna for her, which Malice polishes off. Then, looking perkier, she jumps off the island counter and pads toward the balcony.
I wash up the saucer and put it away. I reach for my glass of whiskey, then spot the white wine she loved. My heart squeezes in my chest. My stomach feels heavy. Malice is not the only one who’s lost her appetite. I’ve been unable to eat beyond the obligatory tasting of dishes in the kitchen since Harper left.
I’m grateful to get to see her at work every day. But it’s also agony, having to remind myself that she won’t be coming home with me after the dinner service. And it's all my fault. I honestly don't know why I can't bring myself to say the words she wants to hear.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to find excuses to brush past her, inhale her scent, and steal glances at her as she cooks.
I’ve used every opportunity to lean over her shoulder, under the guise of monitoring her technique.
Truth is, she’s progressed so much since she joined, I don’t need to hover over her anymore. But if it’s the only way I can be close to her, then I’ll take it.
I want to ask her to come into my office. So I can see her, touch her, hold her, kiss her, and worship her body. But I don’t. That would be against the spirit of what she asked of me. She said she needs time to figure things out, she said. I suspect she means, I need time to figure things out. And I'm working on it.
She hasn’t mentioned anything else about getting a divorce again. I feel stupidly grateful about that.
If she does raise it again…I’ll have to refuse her.
I may have given her space to think, but I’m never giving her a divorce.
I haven’t told her that I love her. And she’s right. She deserves to hearthat. I've tried to practice saying the words out loud, but I only get as far as "I lo—" before my throat closes up. How pathetic am I?
Now, I pour myself a glass of her white wine, instead of my usual whiskey. It makes me feel closer to her.
Then walk upstairs to the bedroom we shared.
