Chapter 90: Cooking

The door was already open a finger’s width when I reached it.

"Glass is by the foot," Evelyn said. "Left side. Don’t raise your eyes."

I kept them on the floor. The glass had rolled and stopped against the bed leg, a thin wet crescent where it had kissed the wood. I crouched, picked it up, and the hem of the sheet was right there, clean, and past it her ankle, bare, the shirt twisted high enough that I saw the curve of her calf and stopped looking.

"Got it."

"Good. Kitchen. Fill it. Bring it back the same way. Eyes down."

I did the trip without decorating it. Tap. Cold. The house still empty. When I came back she had not moved far. I could hear the mattress take a small shift, then settle. I set the glass on the nightstand by sound, not by looking.

"It’s there."

"Stay by the door," she said. "I’m fixing the shirt. Count to ten if you have to. Don’t help."

I counted. Fabric whispered. A soft swear when something pulled. Then a breath that meant she had won the argument with the buttons.

"You can look at my face. Nothing else."

I looked at her face.

She was sitting up now, collar closed, hair flattened on one side from the pillow. The sleep was still in her eyes. So was the caution. She took the glass and drank like she had been waiting for it longer than twenty minutes.

"I knocked it reaching for it in my sleep," she said. "That’s all that happened. Don’t build a story."

"I didn’t."

"You paused at the calf."

"Then I stopped."

"I felt the pause." She set the glass down harder than she needed to. "Sit on the chair. Same rule as before. If the shirt slips I will say so. You don’t get credit for noticing first."

I sat. The chair was warm from the afternoon. She was warmer, even across the room. The window had gone from gold to blue. The street was still empty. She watched it for a moment as if checking the house had not grown another person while she slept.

"I dreamed the sink," she said. "Not the bed. The mirror. You behind me, doing what you were told. I woke up angry at myself, not at you. That’s why I called for water instead of staying asleep. Anger I can aim. The other thing I can’t."

"What was the other thing?"

"Don’t fish." She pulled the sheet over her lap even though the shirt was fixed. "You want a report. I’m not giving you one. I’m telling you I slept and it didn’t reset me. That’s the whole confession. After this glass you go back to the couch. Dinner is eggs if you can manage eggs. I am not cooking."

"I can manage eggs."

"Then manage them later. Not now. Now you sit until I finish this and you leave."

She drank slower than the thirst required. I listened to the glass touch her teeth. A car passed outside and kept going. Neither of us pretended it was coming here.

"The hourglass thing," she said suddenly. "No. Not that. The rule. Head only. I keep thinking I made it too easy to obey, so obeying doesn’t prove anything. That’s unfair to you. You did the harder thing. I should say that out loud once, and then we drop it."

"You already said I was good at the rules."

"I’m saying it without the insult attached." She looked at me over the rim. "Thank you. For the head only. For the hand where I put it. For not opening the shower again. That’s three. Don’t collect a fourth today."

"Okay."

"Okay is not a fourth. Relax."

I almost smiled. She saw it and looked away first, which felt like a point neither of us was supposed to score.

The glass emptied. She held it out. I crossed the room, took it, and did not brush her fingers. She had left them arranged to miss again. This time I let them miss.

"Eggs in an hour," she said. "Knock. Don’t come in if I don’t answer. I might shower again. Alone. Cold, probably. Don’t make a face."

"I won’t."

"And Lucas."

I stopped in the door.

"If I come to the kitchen instead of calling, it means I lost the argument with myself. You still don’t touch me unless I put your hand somewhere. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

She nodded like a contract. The shirt stayed closed. The sheet stayed up. I pulled the door to the click and went to the kitchen to see if we had eggs.

We had four. I set the pan out and did not turn it on. The hour was not up. The house stayed quiet long enough that I thought she had won the argument.

Then the bedroom door opened, not a click this time, a real open, and her bare feet started down the hall toward the kitchen. Slow. The shirt, from the sound of it, was no longer the only thing she had put on. Or had taken off.

"Lucas," she said, before she reached the light. "Don’t turn around until I say. I lost. And I am still deciding what I’m wearing when you do."

I did not turn around.

The pan was on the burner, unlit. Four eggs on the counter. Her feet stopped at the edge of the kitchen tile, and the house was still only us.

"I’m in the doorway," she said. "Eyes on the stove."

"They’re on the stove."

"Good. I lost the argument. That doesn’t mean I walked out here naked. It means I walked out here anyway. There’s a difference. Don’t spend the difference before I give it to you."

"Okay."

Fabric moved. A soft sound, the shirt, or the shorts, I could not tell which she was still negotiating. She breathed like the walk had cost her more than the distance.

"You can turn," she said. "Face. Then you can look down if I don’t stop you. I’ll stop you if I need to."

I turned.

She was in the shirt. The clean one, buttoned wrong, one button skipped so the placket pulled. The shorts were in her hand, not on her. She held them like a decision she had carried down the hall and not finished. Her legs were bare. The mark on her thigh had faded to a shadow. She watched my eyes reach it and did not say stop.

"That’s as far as the loss goes," she said. "Shirt stays. Shorts stay off until I say otherwise. Eggs. I’m sitting. You’re cooking. If you burn them I will take it personally."

"I won’t burn them."

"We’ll see."

She sat at the table and put the shorts on the chair beside her, folded, which was worse than if she had dropped them. A folded thing can be put back on. She had not put them back on. I lit the burner. Butter. The ordinary work, again, with her bare legs in the corner of my eye and the rule still standing between us.

"Salt in the tin," she said. "Not the one by the stove. That one’s damp."

I used the tin. The eggs went in. She watched the pan, not me, which meant she was watching me.

"I slept and woke up wet," she said, plain, like the salt. "Not from you. From the dream of the sink. I washed. It didn’t help. So I came in here because the bedroom was making it worse, and because I told you if I came to the kitchen I had lost. I keep my promises. Even the stupid ones."

"You said I don’t touch you unless you put my hand somewhere."

"I remember." She tucked one foot under the other. "I’m not putting it anywhere yet. Cook."

I cooked. The edges set. She asked for pepper. I gave it to her on the plate, not across the air, so she had to take it from the table and not from my fingers. She noticed the care and looked annoyed that she had wanted the fingers.

We ate. She stole the crisp bit off my plate without asking, then seemed startled by her own hand.

"Habit," she said.

"It’s fine."

"It’s not fineI did not turn around.

The pan was on the burner, unlit. Four eggs on the counter. Her feet stopped at the edge of the kitchen tile, and the house was still only us.

"I’m in the doorway," she said. "Eyes on the stove."

"They’re on the stove."

"Good. I lost the argument. That doesn’t mean I walked out here naked. It means I walked out here anyway. There’s a difference. Don’t spend the difference before I give it to you."

"Okay."

Fabric moved. A soft sound, the shirt, or the shorts, I could not tell which she was still negotiating. She breathed like the walk had cost her more than the distance.

"You can turn," she said. "Face. Then you can look down if I don’t stop you. I’ll stop you if I need to."

I turned.

She was in the shirt. The clean one, buttoned wrong, one button skipped so the placket pulled. The shorts were in her hand, not on her. She held them like a decision she had carried down the hall and not finished. Her legs were bare. The mark on her thigh had faded to a shadow. She watched my eyes reach it and did not say stop.

"That’s as the loss goes," she said. "Shirt stays. Shorts stay off until I say otherwise. Eggs. I’m sitting. You’re cooking. If you burn them I will take it personally."

"I won’t burn them."

"We’ll see."

She sat at the table and put the shorts on the chair beside her, folded, which was worse than if she had dropped them. A folded thing can be put back on. She had not put them back on. I lit the burner. Butter. The ordinary work, again, with her bare legs in the corner of my eye and the rule still standing between us.

"Salt in the tin," she said. "Not the one by the stove. That one’s damp."

I used the tin. The eggs went in. She watched the pan, not me, which meant she was watching me.

"I slept and woke up wet," she said, plain, like the salt. "Not from you. From the dream of the sink. I washed. It didn’t help. So I came in here because the bedroom was making it worse, and because I told you if I came to the kitchen I had lost. I keep my promises. Even the stupid ones."

"You said I don’t touch you unless you put my hand somewhere."

"I remember." She tucked one foot under the other. "I’m not putting it anywhere yet. Cook."

I cooked. The edges set. She asked for pepper. I gave it to her on the plate, not across the air, so she had to take it from the table and not from my fingers. She noticed the care and looked annoyed that she had wanted the fingers.

We ate. She stole the crisp bit off my plate without asking, then seemed startled by her own hand.

"Habit," she said.

"It’s fine."

"It’s not fine. It’s familiar. Familiar is how this gets ordinary, and it isn’t ordinary." She ate the crisp bit anyway. "Tonight you can ask. I said that this morning. I’m not taking it back. I’m also not answering before the plates are in the sink. Finish."

I finished. She finished slower, chasing crumbs with her thumb and then stopping when the thumb reached her mouth. The butter thing. She caught herself and used the napkin.

I washed the plates. She stayed at the table, shorts still folded, shirt still wrong-buttoned. The window was dark now. Our reflections sat in it, small and separate.

"Ask," she said, when the water stopped.

I dried my hands. I did not cross the kitchen.

"Can I see you," I said. "Not touch. The shirt open. You said tonight I could ask."

Evelyn’s mouth parted. She looked at the folded shorts as if they might vote.

"See," she repeated. "Not touch. You stay on that side of the table. I open two buttons. Not the rest. If you come around the table, it’s a no and you sleep on the couch. Say you understand."

"I understand."

She undid the skipped button first, which only made the placket lie right. Then the one below it. Then one more. The shirt opened a hand’s width. Collarbone. The top of her chest. Not more. She held the edges so they would not fall wider, and she let me look.

"That’s the ask," she said. Her voice had gone quiet. "Two buttons and a third I didn’t count. Don’t negotiate a fourth."

"I won’t."

"What do you see?"

"The mark on your neck. The one the collar was hiding. You’re holding the shirt closed so I don’t get the rest. Your hands are shaking."

"They are not."

"They are."

She looked down at them and laughed once, short, angry at the evidence. "Fine. They’re shaking. Looking is not nothing. I thought it would be nothing. I was wrong. That’s the last confession for the kitchen. Button me back up."

"You said I stay on this side."

"I said that before I knew my hands wouldn’t do it." She lifted her chin. "Reach across. Two buttons. No lower. If your knuckles touch skin, you stop and I finish."

I reached across the table. The first button was easy. The second, my knuckle met the warm line of her chest and I stopped.

"Skin," I said.

"I felt it." She did the last one herself, slower than she needed to. The shirt closed. The mark disappeared. She picked up the shorts and did not put them on. "Couch for you. Bed for me. Door clicked, not locked. If I open it tonight, it’s because I lost again. You still wait for the words. Not the door."

"I’ll wait for the words."

She stood. Bare legs. Shorts in her fist. At the hall she paused with her back to me, the wrong button already coming loose again where she had rushed it.

"Lucas."

"Yeah."

"The words, if they come, will be ’come here.’ Not water. Not eggs. If you hear anything else, it’s not permission." She glanced back, eyes dark, shirt pulled tight in her free hand. "And if you hear them, you still ask where to put your hands before you use them. That’s the rule that survived the kitchen."

She went down the hall.

The bedroom door clicked.

I turned the light off in the kitchen and sat on the couch in the dark, shoes off, listening.

The house stayed quiet long enough for the click to feel final.

Then the door opened, and her voice came down the hall, low and already losing.

"Come here."