A Bed of Wilted Spinach

Oven on, apron tied securely, all ingredients correctly laid out. In the kitchen, her domain. She looked around approvingly. The marble topped central island ensured perfect pastry, no soggy bottoms here. A smile, not quite lighting up her face. 
‘You’ll love it,’ he’d said. ‘We can afford it. That money your mother left you will pay for it.’
She’d agreed, although a holiday in the Caribbean had really appealed.
Flour weighed, using those digital scales with fruits printed on the surface. Next the butter, only best butter would do. A look of disapproval had greeted her when she’d used margarine. Cut into small cubes it joined the flour.
It had all been so different in the beginning. A small bedsit, kitchen, lounge, bedroom all in one. They’d shared the cooking, his speciality Spaghetti Bolognese, and even then she’d loved baking, especially cakes. That smile again, slightly warmer this time.
‘Pastry needs cold hands’, he’d said. She put her hands to her cheeks, smearing them with flour. Cold as ice. She began to rub the butter into the flour. A soothing action keeping unwanted thoughts at bay. Next the water to bind all together. She wondered what bound her together, and why she felt herself unravelling.
Pastry set to rest. She went into the lounge. He was sitting in his usual place, newspaper on knees, head lolling. Best not disturb him. Just time to clear up before the next stage.
Black marble dredged with white, repetitive actions with the rolling pin, ensuring that the pastry was the exact thickness. Apples peeled, poached and encased. Not long before that enticing smell would drag him into the kitchen.
‘You’re not having another slice are you, not the sylph like figure from our wedding photo any more,’ he’d said. A bitter smile at this thought. They had once loved each other. Hadn’t they? 
He blamed her, found fault, why didn’t she just leave?
‘Do you want tea with your pie?’
He was still sitting slumped, head even lower, breathing shallow, rasping breaths.
A smile of pleasure suffused her face. She cut herself a large slice of pie fresh from the oven and smothered it in cream. 
‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ she shouted.
There was no reply.