How many lasagnas?

Short story | Fiction | Queer and Black characters |
Drama | Divorce and Breakup

You raised your book like a musket, marched forward on the comfortable chair until it was on two legs…and fired.

Part 1 | Part 2

“You cannot be serious!” you cried out, opening the book to one of your many highlighted sections.

Anika fussed and flipped her book pages, too. “The character is an idiot!” she said.

A chorus of yellow highlights was on almost every page of Anika’s book—the color she used to highlight people’s bullshit. Her short, sandy hair caught pieces of the evening sun in its curls. The light turned it into a halo of red to match the fire in her words. Her brown skin glistened despite the blaring AC. A hint of red steamed below the surface of your dark skin, too, like lava started to cool—but you were ready to explode.

Your voice quivered at an unfamiliar volume, but you stood your ground and argued for the main character like their soul was on the line. You and Anika tugged the character’s virtue towards heaven or hell until it ripped in two. You didn’t give a damn, really, you just wanted to be heard in the one place you had a voice.

“Listen, I hear you, but it’s right there in black and white. People aren’t who you want them to be,” Anika huffed. “They are who they are!”

A few gurgled ahems broke your concentration—not because you were not used to them, but because they sounded far away. You didn’t notice the room had cleared except for the small tabby, who found the banter more interesting than the tennis ball it had abandoned. Everyone stared at you both from the open-concept kitchen, cups of boxed wine clutched to their chests and half-eaten sandwiches. Is it safe now?

Your almost weekly battle ended in another draw. Anika rolled her eyes and tossed her book in her lap. You studied the lines on her face and the fold of her arms over her ample chest. Anika said you were impossible. You said she was unreasonable. Then, the host hesitantly sat the group back down and asked you to move on.

It didn’t matter who was right. Although she refuted your every point, Anika heard them all as usual. There was something about being heard that washed over you. The relief escaped as tiny droplets down your face. Anika followed you to the bathroom with a cup of ice water when you thought nobody noticed the tears again. But you knew she would. Anika always noticed; she always followed.

“Here,” she said, handing you a few cookies wrapped in a napkin to go with the ice water. “The last ones. Your favorite, right?”

A few weeks later, on a Friday, Anika complimented you on your new braids and asked you over for a nightcap after book club. Sometime between the first wine and the second, you rolled over in her embrace to memorize every line of her face. The phone buzzed; you untangled yourself from the sheets. You dressed and contemplated how to do the impossible now that it was inevitable. Your husband would be okay, eventually, you thought. But how many lasagnas would it take?

Part 2

When you walked in the door that evening, your husband was already asleep. You washed away the memory of Anika’s perfume and waited for regret or shame to come. It never did. You didn’t know there was anything better out there. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Now, you know, and you can’t make yourself forget. That is the curse of knowledge.

You decided to leave your husband after church but before the late game. Part of you thought on the drive home from early service that he’d say something to make you regret the choice—a choice you made when you reached for his hand on the walk out of the sanctuary. His long stride carried him forward without a look back. As usual, your hand just landed back at your side, full of air.

At home, you chopped and stirred the biggest pot of sauce you’d ever made and covered the counter in cheese, herbs, and spices while he disappeared into his man cave. He told you once that is why he fell in love with you. This dish of hearty sauce and noodles you’d made for him on your third date all those years ago tasted like love. In so many ways, it was your love. He’d never learned how to make it—never asked, never tried. He just expected it to be there when he looked for it. Layer after layer of your labor piled high to be consumed. Forgotten. You pointed the spoon at the lasagna pans like a conductor. One, two, three…four. Enough lasagna to comfort him long after you’re gone. Your final act of love.

While the lasagnas cooked in the huge double oven, you disappeared into the bedroom to throw your things into two suitcases. The house was spotless. The appointments were all recorded on the big calendars, and there were notes in the laundry room so he didn’t ruin his good pants.

He emerged again and sniffed the scent of garlic laced with bitterness in the air.

“You did something different?” he stared at you. Your heart jumped. Finally?

“The sauce. It smells a bit different. But don’t worry. I like it,” he smiled and departed, content with observing what mattered most. Alone in the kitchen, you tightened the hair tie on your braids (that he never said a word about) and smoothed the apron over your (brand new) dress. You sighed and seasoned the sauce one last time with the salt of a single tear.

The next time he came out of the man cave, most of the lasagnas were tucked safely into freezer-safe Tupperware. The oven had been cool for a while. The counter was littered with sticky notes and a Sharpie.

Divorce was enough to finally catch his attention. He came undone while you attached stickies with reheating instructions to the Tupperware.

He fell into a spiral of rage, disbelief, and sorrow like a tornado gone insane. You explained as best you could, but he chewed on each one of your words and spit them out in disgust. Everything he should have said over the past five years spilled out, too. He shouted terrible things at first, then he cried and pleaded. He questioned how would he do this without you? With his arms folded across his chest he he decided once this…fling…was over that you’d be back. For a moment, you thought to protect him but he deserved the truth.

“Even if there were no one else, it wouldn’t be you,” you said, with your head up. He started to say something that died in his throat. You watched him walk away in defeat.

Then came the knock at the door. You smiled and retrieved your bags. There was Anika, both arms open, ready to help you carry your load.