SUPPER

Mitchel smelled the stew his wife was cooking. It was his favorite. It had carrots, potatoes, and rutabaga, and with the leftover feathers Mitchel had seen on the counter, he guessed that Marget had also added chicken. Chicken was another favorite of Mitchel’s. Margret only added it for him on special occasions, the last one being Christmas. Today, however, was nothing special. There was no holiday or cause for celebration. None of their sons had returned home, and no weddings were being held, yet she still cooked. Mitchel watched his wife like a mouse, unblinking, scared to move. He sat still in his chair, careful not to make the floorboards creek. It was cold in the house. Mitchel was freezing. 

“Would you please put another log in the stove?” Mitchel asked. 

“One or two?” Margret asked. 

“ Two.” 

“We only have one.” 

“One, then. Please.” 

“Are you excited for dinner?” 

“I can’t really taste anything.” 

“But are you excited?” 

“I can't taste.”

“You don’t need to taste to be excited.”

“Is it cold in here?” 

“It feels quite hot to me,” 

Margret stopped chopping potatoes and, with her quilted oven mitt, opened the stove and tossed another log into the fire. She didn’t look back at Mitchel. 

“I made your favorite after all, so you should be excited,” Margaret said.

“How did you afford the chicken?” Mitchel asked. 

“He gave to me.” 

“He gave it to you?” 

“The shopkeeper. For no cost. A gift, he said.” 

“Did he say why?” 

“Yes, they said it was a gift. Did I not say that part?” 

A cow had licked Mitchel once. It was his uncle’s cow if he remembered right. The thing had no name but was brown, like coffee, so as a boy, Mitchel would call her Coffee. Mitchel remembers the feeling of Coffee’s tongue against his cheeks, its roughness as if it could scrub it off like dirt. The same feeling was now on the inside of Mitchel’s mouth on his own tongue, pressed firmly against the back of his teeth. 

“Why was it a gift?” Mitchel asked.

“What gift?” 

“The chicken.”

“It was a very good chicken, you know? It's not the best, not the worst. Better than what he had in the past.” 

“Is it cold in here?” 

“The stews done,” Margret said. She placed one bowl on the table, accompanied by a napkin and a singular silver spoon. 

It was their best bowl, a porcelain bowl with painted periwinkles along the side and center of the bowl. The spoon was part of their best silverware set as well. They had never used it before tonight. 

“I’m cold,” Mitchel said.

“Let me place another log in the furnace,” Margret said. 

“Where is your bowl?” 

“I’m not hungry tonight.” 

“It’s lonely eating alone.” 

“Alone? You’re worried about being alone?”

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll sit with you. So you're not alone. Not tonight, at least.”  

“ It feels wrong to eat this by myself.” 

“I’m not hungry, weren’t you listening?”

“I’m not hungry either, but I’ll eat, only if you eat.”

“There’s only one bowl.”

“We’ll share it.”

“There’s only one spoon.” 

“We’ll share that too.”

The air loosened.

“All right,” Margret said. 

Mitchel took the first sip, catching some carrots and potatoes with his spoon. He placed the spoon down on the left side of the bowl. Margret picked up the spoon and caught some chicken with it. The two took their time sharing the stew. Even after it had gone cold, the two sat there on their poorly made table, sipping away at the stew until the oil in the lamps went dim and lights flicked off.