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Man Needs Meat
He eyed the plate with contempt, fork held in his hairy fist like a weapon.
“What’s this meant to be when it’s at home then?”
Paula bristled, but managed to plaster a smile on her face.
“It’s spiced vegetable stew from the cookbook Angela bought me. It’s quite delicious, I promise,” she replied in the tone of voice usually reserved for coaxing toddlers into behaving.
She had spent the better part of the day on the stew; carefully slicing sweet potato, lashing the chickpeas in oil and garlic, making the perfect broth with just the right amount of cinnamon and turmeric. She had been delighted when she’d tasted it. It was the best thing she’d made in months, but her stomach had fallen when she’d thought of her husband’s reaction.
Maybe if I plated it just right, she allowed herself to think for a moment. But here he was looking at the plate like she had just served him dog shit.
He mashed the fork into the perfectly assembled layers of vegetables, stirring the contents of the stew violently together until it was all pulp.
“A man needs meat,” he practically growled, stretching the last word out before smacking his tongue violently against his teeth to emphasise the T.
Paula couldn’t help but notice the flecks of spit spraying all over her cooking.
“But darling you’ve had meat today. Sausages for breakfast and chopped pork sandwiches for lunch? I just thought this would be a nice change.” When she called him darling what she really meant was filthy rat man. Her carefully cultivated patience was wearing thin. Three good years then thirty spent wishing she were somewhere else. It was hardly worth it.
I’ll leave tomorrow, she said to herself like a salve, I’ll go to my sister’s and leave this filthy rat man to slobber over sausages alone.
“I’d rather go hungry.” He sulked, pushing the offending plate away from him.
Starve then, rat man. She wanted to say, the words flashing red in her mind. Instead, she gave a small sigh and hated herself for saying quietly, “we have steak in the fridge.”
He made a smug little noise that made her teeth clench. “Cooked well done, mind. I want it nice and charred.”
As the steak sizzled in the pan, Paula imagined a life alone. No ungrateful man farting and sweating all over her beautifully laundered sheets, not having to tiptoe around him or worry about what he would say, being able to eat the food she wanted free from his judgement – Bliss.
“How long does it take to cook a steak exactly?” He bellowed from the sitting room, breaking her reverie.
She sighed again, plating the dutifully charred steak with an extra helping of spite.
He took the plate from her without thanks and made a show of ignoring the cutlery instead taking the steak into his hands, tearing chunks of meat with his teeth.
Worse than a pig, horrible hog of a man, Paula thought with profound disgust as she turned away from her husband.
He let out an odd, strangled noise that made Paula’s head snap back. His face was going purple and his hands, slick with grease, had let go of the steak. He was choking, making awful desperate gurgles.
“H-he-help me,” he cried out, gasping.
Paula was frozen. She should be calling an ambulance, trying to clear his throat, doing the Heimlich manoeuvre; Instead, she stared, numb and then exhilarated as she watched her husband choke to death.
“B-b-bitch” he spluttered, before letting out a pathetic wheeze. His head lolled forward with a staid finality.
Paula let out a frenzied giggle.
Well, that’s that then.
She allowed herself to call the ambulance, the hysteric edge to her voice thankfully registering as grief instead of excitement.
“My husband… choking… not breathing… please… come as quickly as possible!”
She closed the door on her husband and sat down at the kitchen table. They lived far from the nearest hospital, it would be at least fifteen minutes until the paramedics would arrive, the call handler had told her gravely. The perfect amount of time for Paula to enjoy her stew
© Diane Lawlor
“What’s this meant to be when it’s at home then?”
Paula bristled, but managed to plaster a smile on her face.
“It’s spiced vegetable stew from the cookbook Angela bought me. It’s quite delicious, I promise,” she replied in the tone of voice usually reserved for coaxing toddlers into behaving.
She had spent the better part of the day on the stew; carefully slicing sweet potato, lashing the chickpeas in oil and garlic, making the perfect broth with just the right amount of cinnamon and turmeric. She had been delighted when she’d tasted it. It was the best thing she’d made in months, but her stomach had fallen when she’d thought of her husband’s reaction.
Maybe if I plated it just right, she allowed herself to think for a moment. But here he was looking at the plate like she had just served him dog shit.
He mashed the fork into the perfectly assembled layers of vegetables, stirring the contents of the stew violently together until it was all pulp.
“A man needs meat,” he practically growled, stretching the last word out before smacking his tongue violently against his teeth to emphasise the T.
Paula couldn’t help but notice the flecks of spit spraying all over her cooking.
“But darling you’ve had meat today. Sausages for breakfast and chopped pork sandwiches for lunch? I just thought this would be a nice change.” When she called him darling what she really meant was filthy rat man. Her carefully cultivated patience was wearing thin. Three good years then thirty spent wishing she were somewhere else. It was hardly worth it.
I’ll leave tomorrow, she said to herself like a salve, I’ll go to my sister’s and leave this filthy rat man to slobber over sausages alone.
“I’d rather go hungry.” He sulked, pushing the offending plate away from him.
Starve then, rat man. She wanted to say, the words flashing red in her mind. Instead, she gave a small sigh and hated herself for saying quietly, “we have steak in the fridge.”
He made a smug little noise that made her teeth clench. “Cooked well done, mind. I want it nice and charred.”
As the steak sizzled in the pan, Paula imagined a life alone. No ungrateful man farting and sweating all over her beautifully laundered sheets, not having to tiptoe around him or worry about what he would say, being able to eat the food she wanted free from his judgement – Bliss.
“How long does it take to cook a steak exactly?” He bellowed from the sitting room, breaking her reverie.
She sighed again, plating the dutifully charred steak with an extra helping of spite.
He took the plate from her without thanks and made a show of ignoring the cutlery instead taking the steak into his hands, tearing chunks of meat with his teeth.
Worse than a pig, horrible hog of a man, Paula thought with profound disgust as she turned away from her husband.
He let out an odd, strangled noise that made Paula’s head snap back. His face was going purple and his hands, slick with grease, had let go of the steak. He was choking, making awful desperate gurgles.
“H-he-help me,” he cried out, gasping.
Paula was frozen. She should be calling an ambulance, trying to clear his throat, doing the Heimlich manoeuvre; Instead, she stared, numb and then exhilarated as she watched her husband choke to death.
“B-b-bitch” he spluttered, before letting out a pathetic wheeze. His head lolled forward with a staid finality.
Paula let out a frenzied giggle.
Well, that’s that then.
She allowed herself to call the ambulance, the hysteric edge to her voice thankfully registering as grief instead of excitement.
“My husband… choking… not breathing… please… come as quickly as possible!”
She closed the door on her husband and sat down at the kitchen table. They lived far from the nearest hospital, it would be at least fifteen minutes until the paramedics would arrive, the call handler had told her gravely. The perfect amount of time for Paula to enjoy her stew
© Diane Lawlor
