She prowls the kitchen at night. Lurking. Clawing at the refrigerator door, desperate for her prey.
She discovers it and, with an unrivaled ferocity orphans the meat from its plastic skin. The blood drips from her hands, onto the countertop, onto the floor, onto the stove and into the blinding iron heat that forever sears its brand–and hers–across the bare and vulnerable landscape. You are mine, she whispers through salivating breath.
The blood now porous and brown, she waits for the last of the stubborn juices to surrender onto the plate. Then she devours.
And I watch. And I am jealous.
Alright, I admit this is a bit over-the-top, but I swear I hear this narrator in the back of my head as I watch my wife eating meat in front of me. Now, I must be fair to her, this isn’t really a problem. She rarely ever orders or makes something as delicious as the above prime rib in front of me. Even when she does, I simply remark how good it looks, how I’d like to take her plate and disappear into the trunk of our car for minute, how I’d like to… Nevermind, I’m getting carried away.
With the changes in my diet, she has been very good about adapting to me. She still eats whatever she wants, most of the time. The problem comes into play when we are going out to eat, particularly in a hurry. Listen, I can only eat so many bean burritos before I’m asked to move back in with my parents, whom I’m ashamed to say would not take in one of “my kind.” Alright, I’m embellishing again, but only about the parent’s part.
There are times, however, when she does order that prime rib. And man, oh man, that is a true test of being a Lactovist. And a husband.
With that being said, for a guy like me, a vegetarian who really can’t stomach a salad, eating on the run isn’t really a viable option. At least living vicariously through my wife and her junior bacon with cheese is.