Notes on A Marriage

I had to work late that night, and found out about it early. I called Clare to let her know.
“You’d better feed yourself, I’ve got no idea when I’ll be back,” I said.
She sighed. This had been happening a lot lately. “Ok,” she said.
“See you later,” I said, and returned to the vast stepped ziggurat of work in front of me.

By half past six that evening, it was clear that I could do no more without getting in the way, so I called it done and rang Clare.
“Good news,” I said. “I’m done, and I’m coming home to you.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “See you soon.” She sounded distracted.

I was home by eight o’clock. Clare was studying, frowning over Shakespeare’s Henry V. She’d scattered books and papers over the table in the back room. “Hey baby,” she said, smiling gently, and got up to give me a hug.

“Listen, I’ve eaten,” I said. To a point, that was true. My dinner had been the chicken katsu curry I’d abandoned at lunchtime, unevenly microwaved and wolfed while I worked. “But I can do you something.”
All she wanted was something simple, pasta and sauce, the kind of thing she’d cook if I wasn’t around. That’s what I did. Spaghetti carbonara. While she worked, I divided my attention between her dinner and a couple of emails. The house was silent apart from the puttering of the water for the pasta. We were both perfectly quiet, perfectly at peace.

She left half of the carbonara, but then I always cook too much. I’m used to making food for two.

When she was done, and had gone back to her books, I tidied up around her. She kissed me on the cheek as I bent to take her plate away.
“You don’t have to wait on me like this,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I do.”

Later, we had ice cream.