Page 31 of Isn't She Lucky
“Go where?” he asks, brows drawing together into a frown. At this rate, he’s going to end up with the expression permanently etched on his face.
“Out,” I respond. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Again, he doesn’t respond – just sits there in a daze, looking at me like he has a million things to say but doesn’t know where to start.
8.
So maybe Istarted my questions too soon. That’s why I didn’t bother her for the rest of the week. I stayed in my office and gave her all the space she needed. For some reason beyond my comprehension, she chose to continue working at the job she told me she doesn’t like. And all week, she came and went without any interference from me. It’s just been work for her, and house shopping with her mother.
Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting here racking my brain trying to determine how this reunion isn’t as happy as I imagined it would be after all these years.
I want answers.
I feel like I deserve them, but she wants to ignore who we once were. Today, Saturday, I was hoping to gain some clarity and get her to talk about what happened between us, but she got up early and left. She didn’t return home until around four. I know because my house is so quiet, I can hear everything. That’s how it is when you’re accustomed to silence.
I don’t want silence. I want noise. I want a home filled with love. Filled with children. And I want her to be their mother. Iwant her to be the woman, the light, the glue that holds it all together.
That’s what she was to me so many years ago. My light. I need to get us back to that place.
Hearing noises in the kitchen, I go there to find out what she’s doing. I see a few bags on the counter. She’s unpacking them and putting items away while leaving some on the counter.
“Good afternoon,” I say to alert her to my presence.
“Oh. Hi. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I was resting when I heard you come in.”
“Not working today, huh?”
“Nah. Not today.”
“That’s good. You’re always working.”
“I don’t have much else to do.”
“You have the world at your disposal, Kasim. You can do anything you want,” she says, searching in the cabinets.
My world ended the moment you walked out of it.
“What are you looking for?” I ask her.
“A cutting board.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to cut something.”
I grin. “I know that, but why are you in here trying to cook? You’re a millionaire now. You can pop in at any restaurant and—”
“I cook better than most restaurants. Besides, they say when you cook your own food, you know exactly what’s in it. You know the sanitary measures you took to make sure it’s not contaminated in any way. Plus, I like cooking. It makes you slow down and think.”
I open the cabinet where I know the cutting board is and hand it to her.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She tears open a bag of onions and removes two. I ask, “What are you preparing?”
