Sandwiches

I watched my wife drink her coffee in bed this morning, just like I’ve always done. The way she held the mug so clumsily was so dear to me, as if she was re-learning all her basic skills each time she woke up. She smiled and a tiny drop spilled from the corner of her mouth. I sat down next to her and dried it off with the corner of my sleeve. I was going to wear it to work, but this was more important than that. I had enough clean shirts.

As she sat there against the headboard with her hair in all directions and her pyjama top falling off her shoulder, I admired her for a moment before walking to the kitchen. She loved eating sandwiches with ham and chocolate spread, and although I never really understood this combination, I always made it for her anyway. A fly attempted to sit on the bread and feast on it first, but I shooed it away with my hand. Flies weren’t uncommon here during summer days, but they were still annoying to deal with. Good thing I bought some fly traps yesterday, a few of them already got stuck in the glue. When I brought the sandwich back and sat down with her again, I noticed she had some pillow marks on her face.

“I take it you slept well?” I asked with a chuckle, brushing my hand over her creased cheek. Oh, that happy affirming smile she gave me...I could stare at it all day. For a moment, the idea of calling sick to work flashed across my mind, but I couldn’t do that. I already had to take a few weeks off recently to care for her when she fell ill. It was terrible, I almost thought I was losing her. All those sleepless nights devoted to watching over her, all that money spent on medicine...I was nearly losing hope. Seeing her better made it all worth it, though.

I changed my shirt and kissed her cheek before leaving for work. My coworkers have been giving me strange looks all week and covering their mouths as they passed by me, probably because of the disastrous zucchini pancakes I brought to our office potluck last Friday. Sure, white chocolate probably doesn’t pair with vegetables as well as I thought, but I really believed they weren’t that bad. At least my wife understood the vision. She even approved of them before I packed the rest up. See, that’s a part of the reason I love her. No matter how weird the food combination I put together is, she almost always ends up loving it. I’m not much of a cook, but she never thought less of my dishes than the ones she’d have at restaurants.

My workday passed in a daze. After a few hours of typing nonsense on the computer and receiving calls from people who seemed to be born yesterday, I could finally go back home to see my wife again. I don’t know what I’d do without her, really. What were other people looking forward to as their work slowly came to an end? What made them want to sing on the way home? I could never imagine a life without this profound joy, without those slow mornings making ham and chocolate sandwiches, without all the love I have for her. Just imagining the warm, welcoming smile on her face made my steps so much lighter as I hurried through the crowded streets.

“Honey, I’m home!” I called out as soon as I opened the door. I’ve already gotten used to her still lying in bed when I got back from work. After all, she was still recovering. I rushed into the bedroom and gave her a hearty kiss before asking if she wants to watch a film after I make dinner, to which she nodded with excitement.

Upon opening the fridge, I tried to think of something to make with whatever ingredients we had. There wasn’t much left from my last trip to the supermarket, but it would have to do. We still had some cream and a bit of parmesan, which was a start. I then searched the cupboards and found half a package of spaghetti hiding in the back, as well as some tomatoes that didn’t look like they’d survive another day. Good thing I found them in time, I’d hate to throw those away – especially with how expensive vegetables have been lately. After a bit more rummaging, I finally found the garlic that I carelessly threw into the pan drawer last week for reasons unknown even to me. All those ingredients combined finally started seeming like a promising meal.

I put a pot of water on the stove and heated up a pan with a sad remnant of our olive oil before putting in some cut-up garlic. The plan was to use two cloves, but as there is never enough garlic, I opted for four cloves instead. The strong fragrance filled up the whole flat, and when I peeked through the doorway to look at my wife, her satisfied smile as she breathed in confirmed it. I then added the diced tomatoes, wincing as the juice burnt a small cut on my finger. I was always quite clumsy with a knife, so this was a common occurrence for me. Once the tomatoes softened, I added the cream. The water in the pot started boiling and I put the spaghetti in before realising I forgot to salt it first, which I fixed right away. What I didn’t forget was to eventually put some pasta water — or as my Italian neighbour called it, the tears of the pasta gods — into the sauce. I always felt like my neighbour would somehow sense if I didn’t do that and call the Sicilian mafia on me. Finally, when everything was cooked, I plated the spaghetti and sauce and grated some parmesan on top before swatting yet another fly with my hand.

When I brought the plates over to the bedroom and handed one to my beloved wife, I turned on the TV on the wall opposite the bed. I moved it there when she was sick so she wouldn’t have to move to the living room for some entertainment, and we preferred it this way even weeks later. As I went through our DVDs, I noticed her excited grin when I held up her favourite cheesy rom-com. She’s been watching that one for weeks now without tiring, but I still put it on without complaining. If it keeps her happy, who am I to complain?

I leaned back against the headboard with my plate in hand, letting her head rest against my chest as usual. Whenever she did that, all my worries instantly vanished. This was all that mattered. This — her soft hair tickling my neck, her satisfied face as she rewatched that rom-com for the tenth time this month — was what I was looking forward to the whole day.

Sometime in the late evening, the doorbell rang. It was strange, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Nobody has visited us since last month. I kissed my wife on the forehead and paused the film before walking to the door and opening it.

“Good evening sir,” began one of the two men outside as he showed me a police badge, “we’ve been getting complaints about a foul smell coming from your property. Apologies for the late intrusion, the callers are being very persistent tonight. Is it alright if we take a look around?”

“Why, of course. I haven’t noticed anything myself, but maybe my sinuses are blocked from allergies. Please, come in.” I answered, stepping aside to let them walk past me. Was there a gas leak? A dead cat under our porch I haven’t noticed? Whatever it was, I was glad someone has notified them.

The officers walked through the house, seeming far too interested in the flies. Maybe it really was a dead animal, now that I think about it. I waited by the main door as they scanned the bedroom. They soon returned, one of them suddenly putting handcuffs around my wrists.

“Sir, you’re under arrest for preventing a lawful burial of a body,” he said. I was confused. There was no body in my house. It was just me and my wife. Surely this could be explained somehow. I tried to turn around to at least check on her as they started leading me outside, but I couldn’t see her over the door frame anymore. All I could catch was the nightstand next to her side of the bed.

And for the first time, I noticed the pile of untouched mouldy sandwiches on top of it.