I glanced at her, noting the faint red marks under her collar. My voice was flat as I replied, “I’ve been busy. Cleaning up the place. Didn’t check my phone.”
She scanned the room, her expression quickly souring. “Busy with what? I cleaned up this place just yesterday.”
“Throwing out some things I don’t need.”
She frowned, her gaze landing on the cardboard boxes stacked near the door. “I told you not to buy that stuff in the first place. Now you’re wasting time throwing it out,” she grumbled, and without hesitation, she picked up one of the boxes and carried it outside.
I followed her, watching as she casually discarded the items into the dumpster—things meant to commemorate five years of memories. They meant as little to her as I apparently did.
Later, at the restaurant, she ordered our usual seafood-boil and sides but added a dish I hated—milt or fish sperm.
My appetite evaporated instantly. This time, I decided not to hold back.
“Waiter,” I said calmly, “take this dish away and just bring the check, please.”