Nick is home sick from work. I head home from the office to grab lunch. Nick has made a nest of blankets and Youtube and tea and Kleenex in our den. I join him with a serving bowl of salad on my lap that I am eating out of with a fork.
I return the salad bowl to the fridge and return with a huge square of leftover spinach strata that I am eating with my hands.
Finally I pour myself some raisin bran and sit down on the couch, peering lovingly into my third lunch. Nick looks up at me and grins a huge snide smile. He says, "Really?" and starts laughing his high-pitched whinny typically reserved for when my underwear is threadbare or I can't get the housekey to turn in the lock.
I burst into tears and bolt for the front door. Still holding my cereal, I find a spot where I can't be seen from the windows or if he follows me out the front door in pursuit. I make myself flat against the brick and continue eating my cereal. A neighbor passes me in the alley. I smile, he looks down. I am, after all, a woman pressed against a house, halfway behind a bush, eating cereal in business casual clothes.
I reenter the house. Nick regards me like a cornered opossum, like he's reassuring himself that I am actually more afraid of him than he is of me. I grab my bag and smile insanely and leave in my car. I drive down the street and park because, well, I don't want to go back to work. I call him and sob like a hammered sorority girl that I feel SO LONELY and WITHOUT SUPPORT and DON'T LAUGH AT MY APPETITE I AM SENSITIVE.
I drive back home and lay down on the bed. Nick sits on my stomach and honks my boob. I tell him that it was muh-muh-mean to laugh at my third lunch. He says, "I wasn't supposed to laugh? You were eating cereal out of a wine glass with a sundae spoon."