Cancerous

There were many things Harold took for granted, but Ursula was not one of them.

“Who’d cook for you?” she’d demanded, the night before she left.

“I can cook just fine,” he’d said. “Remember that pot roast?”

“It was dry. Besides, you had to ask me what to cook with it.”

Harold relented. “But you’re not going anywhere, and you can teach me. I’m teachable.” He thought it was a selling point, one of his best.

What Harold hadn’t counted on was Ursula’s pessimism. The next evening he came home from work to find a dozen Tupperware containers lined up in fridge, her Betty Crocker cookbook open on the counter. A yellow Post-It note on the title page, with her handwriting: “These should keep you for a week. Maybe if you follow the directions exactly you can figure out the rest. Don’t let the heartache eat you up.”

But Harold was sure this feeling wasn’t some cancerous pain that would chew through him, slowly and painfully. It was more like an appendix: it just hung on, useless and inactive until it burst.

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1 Comment

  1. A reminder that relationships take work and lots of love!

    Reply

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