The moist cheese on his blue-and-white porcelain, the Pinot.

Our entire marriage, I had been ­accepting those gifts, not waiting for the meal. My husband came into the living room and sniffed ­behind my ear. He moved my pretty hair. He told me I smelled like a newborn. Not baby powder: it was something else about me. 

Did you ever find pineapples? he asked. For Sunday?


You better go back. Otherwise it’s on the list with the playing cards.  


I’m kidding, he said. 

He handed me that sweaty cheese. 

I want to wait for dinner, I said. He left the wine on the arm of the sofa. I sat there, watching the kitchen fill with steam. 

And that’s how I coddled the wait. It was a misfit infant coming, no matter how slowly or quickly I ate my supper.