Home Improvements

When John walked through the door of his home, Sandra was waiting for him, oven gloves on her hands and an apron covering her dress. Guilt was written all over his face and Sandra could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
“Just in time.” She said. “Dinner’s ready.” She opened the oven door and pulled out the spinach and ricotta lasagne, the tray was piping hot and the heat seeped through the gloves burning her fingers. She placed the tray of hot food on the kitchen table and then took off the oven gloves and waved her hands in the air trying to get them to cool. John seemed to look at the lasagne with a look of disappointment. There was a sufficient lack of meat in his diet and having just recently turned vegetarian his palate was craving the juice of a chicken or a rasher of bacon. Even a simple ham sandwich would suffice. But Sandra was adamant that they ate too much meat and that the new health regime was a much better way of living.
“The skin of vegetarians always seems to glow more than carnivores. I want glowing skin.” She had said. She placed the salad on the table in between the plates and the cutlery and pulled up a chair.
“Sit, it’s time to eat.” She told him. John sat down. A minute’s silence followed, Sandra watched John sprinkle for too much Lo Salt onto his meal and her lips curled into distaste. “You’ve done it again haven’t you?”
“No.” He said, but he knew what it was she was referring to.
“You have its written all over your face.”
“I haven’t, I’ve not done anything. I swear.”
“You have I can see it in your eyes. You’ve eaten meat.” She leaned forward across the table and sniffed at him. “I can smell it on your breath.”
“Well maybe I had a sliver of a piece of steak at the pub.”
“You did what?”
“I said...”
“I know what you said.”
“Then why ask to repeat myself?”
“Because I can’t believe you’d do such a thing after we said we’d give it up. I can’t believe you ate a steak.”
“I said a sliver.”
“You ate a steak admit it.”
“No.”
“Admit it.”
“Okay I ate a steak.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you?” Is that all you’re going to say?”
“Well what more is there to say? You went against my wishes. You ate a steak. You’ve poisoned your insides what do you want me to do about it?”
“Tell me you love me.”
“No way.”
“Go on, tell me you love me and we can forget the whole thing.”
“I love you but I won’t forget this. And don’t even think of kissing me with that stinky meat breath. You... you... meat eater.” Sandra stood up from the table and pushed her empty plate away from her. Clearly she wasn’t in the mood for eating anything now and John could kiss goodbye to any possibility of making whoopee tonight.

John looked at the spinach and ricotta mush and the side salad. He was still full from his steak and chips at the pub and the thought of eating anything as healthy as salad just put him off eating all together. He stood to his feet and left the steam from the lasagne to rise into the air and disappear into nothing. He trudged heavily up the stairs towards the bedroom where he could hear Sandra’s muffled cries. He opened the bedroom door and watched for a second as his wife sobbed pathetically into her pillow. When her cries subsided John stepped into the room, his left foot made the floorboard creak, and at the sound of it Sandra lifted her head and looked at him briefly and started to sob again, only louder this time and twice as dramatic.
“Oh stop crying Sandra. You’ll get mascara all over your white pillow case and you know what a bitch it is to get out.”
“And how would you know? Like you ever do the washing.” John couldn’t argue with that. He never did the washing nor did he care about the mascara on the pillow case. He perched himself on the edge of the bed and rubbed her back roughly.
“Softer.” She barked at him. He rubbed her back gently.
“Come on now love, it’s really not that big a deal. It’s just a steak. It’s not like it’s going to kill my complexion.” He said. Sandra wailed like a banshee and buried her face deeper into the pillow. “Come on now, there are a lot of worse things I could have eaten. I mean, snails for instance. They’re horrid things.”
“You ate a cow. How is that not worse?”
“Give me a break San I’m trying, I’m doing my best to make this right.”
“Then you shouldn’t have eaten the chunk of cow should you?”
“Fine.” John said. He removed himself from the bed and left his wife to resume her position of sobbing into the tear streaked pillow stained with black smudges of No7 mascara.

John retreated to the kitchen. He covered their uneaten meals with tin foil and put cling film over the wilting salad. He put the cutlery and dishes away and turned on the television. He sat there for about an hour watching a re-run of the Carry On film, Don’t Lose Your Head and he enjoyed the peace and quiet.

At the time, had also enjoyed eating his chunk of cow, but after the drama that had unfolded. He wasn't sure that the medium/rare black peppercorn steak with French mustard and pile of chunky chips, had been worth it. Perhaps if he had just talked to Sandra about his distaste for beans and leaves and soya she would bring meat back in to his life without the need for the secrecy.

Sandra descended the stairs as the credits rolled and went into the kitchen. John could hear her scrubbing at the pillowcase with a brillo pad. Half an hour later she came up behind him and presented him with a ham sandwich.
“You’re right,” She said. “The mascara won’t come out.”