It seems odd thinking about it now, but at the time, it had felt inconsequential, as if it was nothing to get too worked up about, nothing at all really, given how it was simply a natural response to something he had said to me, something that could have been easily, naturally dismissed, to become something to blend in with the spoils of just another ordinary day, cast into the garbage disposal of non-events, gobbled up efficiently, like everything else, long before it had a chance to matter.

Yes, definitely, at the time, it appeared to be nothing at all. I mean, I know I had reason to be bothered, but I never dared to let on. It was best to keep everything level, despite knowing, for quite some time, something was off. But there was definitely no option but to stay even-keeled – you know, to keep things under wraps – given how so much time had gone by. What was the point in digging up the dirt? One learns to cope with these things. To make allowances. Melodrama was not a good idea. Best for all to avoid that kind of carry on. Believe me. I know. It gets you nowhere, but down a very deep hole of regret, constantly second guessing one’s every move.

For my part I said nothing. Maintained a kind of mum’s the word attitude, a hush-hush approach, kept it well tucked under my hat, smiling appropriately, cleaning the loo, doing the laundry, walking the dog.

I knew he was tired. That didn’t help matters. Nothing is worse than having to drag oneself through the daily grind of daily life, knowing deep down, you really should be making the most of it. But that’s of no help whatsoever if you’re too damned worn out to even make an effort. Of course, he always insisted he wasn’t. Going as far as to say he felt fine. Better than ever, he said. He looked terrible though. Greying, tired skin, sagging jowls, heavy bags under his eyes. There was a weight attached to his gait too, like he was shackled to something invisible, as if everything he had kept to himself his entire life was finally beginning to show, and for all intents and purposes, he had become an elephantine, lumbering example of concern, every step an effort, his springs fast losing purpose, caving in, conceding defeat.

But it was the denial that got me the most. The pure refusal to admit he was practically immobilized by this self-manufactured restraint. Yes. It was amazing to watch him go about sinking his own ship in a sense, while I watched silently from the dock, waiting for the last gasp, the resounding, unstoppable POW to kick in.

It wasn’t all bad. There were times when he still offered to make me dinner. He enjoyed doing that. He did, sometimes at least, although, I never could tell for sure whether it was guilt-related or not. Still, he’d happily make a trip to the store. Buy a few items from a hastily compiled list. Come home. Potter about for a bit doing god knows what before setting about to cook the meal.

He was always a fish guy. Rice. Broccoli. Simple. Tasty. The first meal he ever made for me was back when he owned a toaster oven. Fish sticks. Tater tots. It probably took him no more than fifteen minutes to put together. I watched him from the kitchen table. Now and then he’d stop what he was doing, bend to kiss me. Remark on something or other. Sip from a glass of chilled wine. Whistle softly while he plated up.

I don’t do fish. But, I can. Of course, I can. But I don’t want to. Or like to. It’s the mess that never fails to get me, the hissing oil splattering all over the stove top, the splash back. The pan gunky, beyond salvation. Never mind the cooking of the fish, the timing notoriously challenging. Having to gauge if it’s done or not. No. I’m more into rustic food. Cuisine paysanne. Playful melodies of country stews, tagines, roasts. A decent bourguignon. Chicken Cacciatore. A rich, classical Bolognese, a cheeky Ragu, a trad stew, proper old school roasts, giblet gravy, stuffing, crackling, roast potatoes. Take fricassee for instance. Foolproof, it never fails to please. And when the recipe calls for simmer, you simmer. The key is the butter. Unsalted. The roux, too. There’s nothing worse than not cooking out the flour. It only ends up bitter. Balance everything. Not too much or too little of anything. No bother, no fuss, attending to the dishes on my terms, whenever it takes my fancy, cleaning up as I go, everything falling into place with the least amount of effort.

He knows that. Admitted it made him nervous. My cooking. It made him feel inadequate, he said. But wait, that’s got nothing to do with any of this. The reason I got going in the first place was to simply point out how things get put away, compartmentalized into the already full cabinet of our minds without ever taking into consideration what it is that’s being stashed. Let’s be clear. He was making dinner. Even though he was tired. Exhausted really. Worn out. In shackles from carrying stuff around inside of himself for years. He was really exhausted. There is no other word for it to describe how he went from fridge to stove as if he might have been crossing miles of desert, barefoot, without any source of water. It must have been a challenge for him to have to take the fish out of the bag. The rice too, morphing the way it did into a heavy sack of stone, the broccoli, becoming a tall, unruly shrub pulled from the garden. Looking down at his hands he saw them as if they belonged to a newborn baby, curled, unable to control any prolonged grasp of even the smallest item.

I wasn’t aware of any of this. I was in the other room doing a crossword. Stuck on ten across, six letters, ending in M. Clue: Breach. Considering the answer to be schism. Pen to hand. Savouring the moment of insight. Of being alone in the other room. Not expecting him to say anything to me, given the distance between us.

In retrospect, I most definitely should have said more to what he had said to me. Come to think of it, I must have most definitely sounded curt, dismissive, uncaring. Yes, to say the least I was being insensitive, knowing he was tired, exhausted, knowing the tiredness was written on his face as he dragged himself across the floor to stand at the countertop, dabbing firmly at the flesh of the fish with paper towel, pressing his baby hands into the dead cold scales, some stray scales coming off, annoyingly adhering to his skin, the glue-like translucent scales impossible to detect, he trying to concentrate on cutting the broccoli into even florets, measuring out the right amount of rice, the grains tipping over out of the bag and onto the floor, he pushing the grains with his foot towards the skirting board.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what he said to me, although I do wonder if he had meant to say anything at all, or if it was simply a thought escaping, coming to the surface, leaping out of his mouth before he could do a thing to prevent it. That must have been why I responded as I did, in automatic mode, my mind selfishly stuck on schism. Saying, I know, like I did. The way a wise-ass might respond. A snarly smarty pants. A stick this in your pipe and smoke it you idiot fool response. He didn’t say anything back. Part of me supposed he hadn’t heard what I said, that the splattering fish had drowned it out, or that he had turned the radio on, riffling the channels for the latest news, so it wouldn’t have mattered one iota either way. That I could have said anything at all and it would have floated away into the ether.

That’s most likely it. He was listening to the radio. Looking for news. The wars. Trump. I mean he’s always going on about him. It would drive you nuts. No wonder he’s wrecked. Now and then, I’ll suggest we don’t need to be bothered with the Trump thing, but he’ll just ignore me, continuing to look down at his phone as if he’s trying to see through it, the light flickering on the permanent shadows on his tired face in the darkening room.

Believe me. I know it is not at all normal to be so obsessed with this man. This man he’s obsessed with, who has caused him to distance himself from me to such a degree that I may as well not exist, as if Trump could have the power to eradicate whatever remained of us, and ensure, it was beyond retrieval no matter what. I can’t be sure. All I know is I shouldn’t have said, I know, to what he said to me. That’s all. But maybe I got sick of it. All the stuff. The way it’s taken over his life, and now, mine. I mean, you can’t carry the weight of that around. It’s way too damn fucking heavy.

When he finished cooking the meal, he called out to me like an impatient parent telling his kid that dinner was ready. First off, let me say the kitchen was not a pretty sight. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m as grateful as the next person for someone to cook a meal for me, but you should have seen the state of the place. Used kitchen paper stuck to the floor, the cutlery scattered willy-nilly on the table without placemats or napkins or drinking glasses. What’s worse is he had already started to eat and was picking the fish up with his hands, ravenously taking big bites out of it, savage like, spitting the bones out onto his plate, wiping his greasy hands all over his shirt.

I grabbed my cutlery and sat down across from him. The fish tasted surprisingly good. Flaky and well-seasoned, the way it’s supposed to be. This is really good, I said, my voice attempting to fill the void between us, his face, almost beautiful.