He turned to his typer and made a few notes concerning the upcoming board meeting, but then decided that these were redundant and tore the paper out of the machine. He could have typed a call for HARLIE, but he resisted the temptation. For some reason he did not feel up to talking with HARLIE again today. Besides, he knew he would have to talk to him about the use of the telephone auto-dial, and that was one confrontation he wanted to avoid.
Or would that be a cop-out? He worried about that one for a while and decided that it probably would be.
But on the other hand, he needed time to prepare, didn’t he? Yes, he rationalized, I need time to prepare. I’ll come in tomorrow and talk to HARLIE about it. Or maybe Sunday. The plant was open all week long.
Idly, he found himself wondering — what did HARLIE do on weekends?
Instead of a restaurant, they ended up at his apartment.
“When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?” she had asked him in the car.
“Huh? Oh, now look—”
“Listen, I know what your idea of cooking is, David. Slap a steak in the broiler and open a beer.”
“I thought this was supposed to be my treat.”
“It is — pull in at that shopping center there. I’ll pick up the fixings and you’ll pay.”
He grinned at that and swung into the parking lot. Dusk was turning the sky yellow and the atmosphere gray.
As they wheeled the cart through the package-lined and fluorescent-lit aisles, he realized that something about the situation was making him feel uneasy. As he usually did in cases like this, he tried to pinpoint the cause of his unease. If he could isolate it, then perhaps he might understand it and be able to do something about it.
But whatever the cause of it was, it eluded him. Perhaps it was just a hangover from this morning’s malaise. Perhaps. But then again—
Annie was saying something.
“Huh? I didn’t hear you.”
“You mean you weren’t listening.”
“Same thing,” he said. “What were you saying?”
“I was asking, Do you eat all your meals in restaurants?”
“Um, most of them. I don’t do much cooking.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Too much fuss and bother, I guess.”
She reached for a package of noodles. “Beef Stroganoff all right?”
He made a face, and she replaced the package. “Have you ever had Stroganoff?”
“Uhuh.”
“Then how do you know you don’t like it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like things with noodles, that’s all.”
“Spaghetti too?”
“Oh, spaghetti’s all right — but not tonight.”
“Not in the mood for it?”
He shrugged again. To tell the truth, he didn’t feel much in the mood for anything. “I’d rather have something lighter.”
“Steak?” she asked.
Another shrug. “Okay by me.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. She took the cart from him and wheeled determinedly toward the meat counter. He trailed after. The feeling of unease was becoming a sense of pressure.
“I’ve got an idea,” she was saying. “Roast.”
He considered it. “Okay.”
She pored over the plastic-wrapped rednesses, thick and juicy. Layers of beef, cleaned and cut and sanitized into sterile-looking shapes. The juice that seeped around the edges was blood. He imagined a mouth of sharp needlepoint teeth tearing into the salty moist flesh. It was cold and raw.
Finally she selected one and turned the cart toward the vegetable counters. “You know,” she said, “it’s really a shame they don’t make boys take home economic courses. You wouldn’t know a good piece of meat unless you bit it, and by then it’s too late — you’ve already paid for it.” She selected a head of lettuce; it too was plastic wrapped. “Go pick out some salad dressing and croutons — or garbanzos.”
They moved through the store quickly, picking out some frozen vegetables — in plastic, naturally, boil them in the bag — and also a bottle of wine, a hearty burgundy. For dessert, vanilla ice cream.
“You know,” he whispered as they approached the checkout stand, “you don’t really have to go to all this trouble.”
“Yes I do,” she said.
“But I’d be just as happy with a restaurant.”
“But I wouldn’t. David,” she said, “did you ever stop to think that I might want to cook? How often do I get a chance to fuss over someone? Now please, shut up and let me enjoy it.”
He shut. He thought about it. Well, maybe she does enjoy cooking. Just because you don’t, doesn’t mean that everybody feels the same way. Maybe some girls like to play house—
Play house! Yes, that was it. She was playing house!
And I’m the surrogate husband, he realized with a start. The pressure swelled in his head.
Stop it he told himself. That’s the clinical way of looking at it. When you’re involved in the situation yourself, you can’t afford to be clinical.
Or was that wrong? When you’re involved in an emotional situation, maybe you can’t afford not to be clinical.
But that’s the whole problem, he realized. I’m still analyzing everything I do. Why can’t I just sit back and enjoy it?
Why?