Simmer

“It says mince. What you’ve done is a rough chop.”

“It’s all going to cook down the same.”

“There wouldn’t be different methods of slicing things if it didn’t affect the taste or texture.”

“I promise you it will be fine.”

“I don’t want it to be fine. I want it to be correct.”

“We don’t have sharp enough knives to get them fine anyways.”

“There’s a knife sharpener in the drawer. We’ve had it for years.”

“I’m barely in here. The kitchen intimidates me.”

“And the dirty dishes are terrifying to you too, I imagine.”

“You know I hate the feeling of wet food on my hands.”

“I don’t enjoy it either.”

“You’re braver than me.”

“You were brave enough to join me today.”

“Only because you were complaining about spending money and how much your feet hurt. I figured I could help.”

“Ignoring the directions isn’t helpful.”

“You act like we’re building a fucking bomb. It’s just pasta and chicken.”

“Just because something is designed to be simple doesn’t mean it deserves any less attention or care to make it magnificent. You think I’m just tossing shit together and hoping for the best when I cook for us everyday?”

“Frankly, I have no idea what you’re doing in here most of the time.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t, but you taste the meals. Unless you’ve been holding back, I haven’t heard any complaints.”

“I didn’t realize you were open to feedback.”

“If you have something to say, don’t let me hold you back.”

“I think we could do with more variety if I’m honest.”

“Does that mean you’re going to find more recipes for us to try?”

“You’re so much better at that than me.”

“It sounds like you don’t want variety that badly then.”

“You seriously can’t just look stuff up?”

“Why can’t you just participate?”

“I just told you–”

“No. What I heard is you pushing another chore onto me.”

“How do you even consider looking up a recipe a chore? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Do you know how ridiculous it sounds to claim I’m better at it than you, and that's the reason you can’t do it?”

“You’re just looking for a reason to criticize me.”

“I…”

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

“What would be the point?”

“To make me feel better about your constant critiques.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it though? I’m not critiquing you.”

“You are.”

“I am asking you to act like you want to be here.”

“Where else would I want to be?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere that you’re eager to participate. Somewhere that you look at a recipe and want to follow it to the letter because the most perfect outcome matters to you. Because that is certainly not fucking here.”

“What is your problem, my god?”

“You, frankly. You’re my problem.”

“Now, you’re just being dramatic. Put the cream in the pan and let’s finish the food before you get in one of your moods.”

“Don’t fucking dismiss me like that.”

“Relax, will you?”

“I was relaxed, and now all you’ve done is piss me off.”

“Go lay down or something. I’ll finish the sauce.”

“You can’t! You’re determined not to do it right.”

“It’s still going to be edible. I’m not incompetent.”

“You could have fucking fooled me.”

“You… think I’m incompetent?”

“I think I’m sick of your bullshit.”

“Right, like every other time you’ve complained. And yet you’re still here making me the same chicken and goddamn pasta over and over again. So, give it a rest, will you? You’re getting yourself all worked up for nothing.”

“For nothing? You think this is nothing?”

“You being mad at me over some onions? Yes, I think that’s nothing.”

“You… don’t get it at all.”

“Get what?”

“Do you love me?”

“My god, why the fuck are you asking me that right now?”

“Answer the question.”

“You always do this. Stop fucking questioning everything I do and maybe you wouldn’t be so damn insecure.”

“Do. You. Love. Me?”

“Of course, I love you!”

“You’re… lying. Your jaw, it always tenses like that when you’re lying. Look me in the eye and say it.”

“I’m really tired of these games.”

“You can’t even do it, can you?”

“I’m just going to order us some food since you burned the butter and want to be difficult anyway.”

“Don’t bother.”

“What?”

“I said don’t bother.”

“So you’re just going to… what? Not eat? That’s new.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m overweight?”

“You are, but I’ve always liked that.”

“And you wonder why I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I just heard your stomach growl.”

“That wasn’t my stomach. It was the disgust roiling in my chest.”

“What the actual fuck are you saying right now?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“I'm saying… that you disgust me. That you exhaust me. That I am tired of looking at you and hoping that you’ll work with me, that you’ll work for us. You refuse to even meet me in the middle when I have laid myself and my heart before you to trample time and time again. I gave you one job today. Mince the onions. And you couldn’t do it. It would be different if it was clear to me that you’d tried at all, but you didn’t. You produced the worst possible version of what I asked of you and expected that I’d just accept it.”

“Wait a min–”

“No, frankly, I’m tired of waiting. I’m going to turn the stove off, and then you’re going to put on your shoes– Oh, of course, they’re still on your feet. When I've asked you time and time again not to wear them in the house, they’re still on your feet.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Why don’t we just take a second to calm down?”

“No, thank you. It's time for you to leave.”

“You’re kicking me out? But this is our home?”

“Actually, it’s mine. Only my name is on the lease, so you have no right to be here. And now I want you gone.”

“Please… can we talk about this?”

“Don’t bore me with that false politeness and soft tone. Weren’t you the one who said it earlier? That this was nothing. So, it seems to me that we don’t have anything to talk about.”

“All this over some fucking onions.”

“The onions aren’t even the half of it.”