I skim the instructions with haphazard intent
as you maneuver around the cramped walk-in shower
trying to wash away a day’s worth of dirt and stress.
You said you were craving spaghetti,
but all I can find is Chef Boyardee.
It should be good enough, right?
I feel like nothing is ever enough.
But I give whatever I can, ‘cause it’s all I can do.
And for a second, I smile at myself—
and my heart starts to warm, because for once
it’s me taking care of you, rather than you of me.
Then the door swings open, water still running,
and you emerge from the fog, wringing your hair.
A wave of familiar grief washes over my back
as you reach for my phone to call your girlfriend,
and I plant myself in front of the stove
trying to hide a burnt can of pasta.