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.