She says, What are you doing?
She has just walked into the kitchen. He is concentrating on something at the counter. It is clear by his posture that it isn’t going well. He says, Nothing.
You are not doing nothing, she says. You’ve got a bowl and some flour there. And butter. You’ve got a bunch of fruit. I see a cookbook. You’re cooking, she summarizes.
No, I’m not.
You are cooking, she says. Then she adds, You don’t cook.
His shoulders twitch. He turns to look at the cookbook, revealing his face. It is tight and flushed.
He says, I am baking.
You don’t bake, she says.
Well, it looks like you’re wrong, he says.
She sits at the table. She takes out her phone and uses it to ignore him. Every few minutes, he emits a quiet oath. She laughs at something on her phone.
Look! she says. She holds up the phone.
He turns. His forehead is dripping with sweat. He wipes it away with his shirtsleeve, which is also sweaty.
On the phone’s screen, an animal is doing something funny.
That’s funny, he says, unsmiling, and returns to his work.
So, she says, putting the phone away. Why the fuck are you baking?
For fun, he says.
You’re not having fun, she says. You’re miserable.
So what if I am, he says.
If you suck at it, and it’s not fun, what’s the point?
He mutters a reply, too quiet to hear.
What? she says. Speak up.
I said, I was reading an article about marriage.
What does that have to do with anything? Marriage? What?
He grunts. A little cloud of flour rises up from the counter. He says, The article says you can make your husband happy by baking him a pie. So I’m baking you a pie.
You’re the husband, you asshole, she says. I’m the wife.
Whatever, he says. The principle is the same. You’re unhappy, so I’m baking a pie.
I’m not fucking unhappy, she says. Who said I was?
He doesn’t answer. After a while she returns to chuckling at her phone. When, some time later, the sound of quiet sobbing reaches her from the counter, she puts the phone away and goes to him.
She says, You’re doing it wrong.
No, I’m not.
Yes you are.
I’ve got the butter and the flour. And the sugar. And I’m putting them together and it’s just a … it’s crap. It’s a ball of fucking crap.
Move.
No.
Don’t be a baby, she says. Move over.
He steps aside, but not quite far enough. She pushes him with her hip. He stumbles with an exaggerated motion.
This butter is warm, she says. You need cold butter. And ice water. Where’s the fucking ice water?
Ice water? he says.
For fuck’s sake, she says.
She throws away everything he has done. Then she spends forty minutes clanking around in the kitchen, making a pie. She makes a crust and then she makes the filling and then she puts more crust on top of the filling and she puts the pie into the oven. During this time he retreats to the table and sits very still, with his head on his crossed arms.
When she joins him at the table, clapping the excess flour from her hands, he abruptly gets up, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He runs from the room. A moment later, a distant door slams.
When the pie is ready, she takes it out of the oven, cuts a slice, and puts it on a plate. She brings it up to the bedroom. But the door is locked.
Open the fucking door, she says.
No.
I brought your pie.
I don’t like pie, he says, his voice muffled by what sounds like a pillow.
Of course you do, she says. Everybody likes pie.
I don’t like hot fruit.
You don’t like what? What kind of fucking phobia is that?
I didn’t say I was afraid of it, he says, more clearly now. I said I didn’t like it.
Baking makes the husband happy, she says. I’m setting it down here in the hallway, and you better fucking eat it. I spent a fucking hour baking it for the sake of our marriage. You’re going to grow up and eat it and it’s going to make you happy. If I come up here in fifteen minutes and I don’t see an empty plate outside this door, I’m going to break in there and fucking force-feed you marriage therapy. Do you understand?
He doesn’t answer. She goes downstairs, serves herself a piece of pie, and laughs at funny animals on her phone while eating it.
Meanwhile, upstairs, the door opens a crack and a hand snakes out. It drags the plate of pie through the opening. The door closes.
A few minutes later, the sounds of crying can be heard, followed by the sounds of eating.