Lucretia gazed up at him, eyes shining with worship.
"It's the master's charm, that's all. Of course your wife couldn't stay mad at you for real!"
She stuck out her tongue playfully. Mark took the bowl without a word, drew her down beside him at the table.
"Lucretia doesn't eat ginger or garlic. Remember that next time."
He kept his head bent, carefully picking out each piece of ginger and garlic as he tossed the order at me over his shoulder.
The scene looked like they were the master and mistress of this house, and I was nothing but the hired help.
Yet in ten years, he had never once done anything like this for me.
He always said his hands were meant for painting, that all the small tedious tasks of living were mine to handle for him.
On an ordinary day he wouldn't so much as right a tipped-over trash can, let alone spoon-feed me porridge.
Last month, when my period collided with a bout of gastroenteritis, the pain pinned me to the bed.
He wouldn't even boil me a cup of brown sugar water. He insisted on ordering delivery instead.
I stared at the words estimated arrival in one hour, too drained to feel anything but despair, and in the end I dragged myself up on my own.
So it turned out his artist's hands could care for someone after all.
A nameless fire flared up in me. I stepped forward, snatched the bowl, and dumped it into the sink.
"If she can't eat it, then don't make her."
"Ava Jenner! Have you lost your mind? She's sick! There's a limit to how jealous you're allowed to be!"
Then he looked down at Lucretia.
"Come on. The master will take you out to eat."
I grabbed the bedsheet from the corner and hurled it at him.
"Take your filth and get out!"
Mark turned back, looking at me like I was a lunatic.
The door slammed hard enough to shake the walls. I ladled myself another bowl of porridge and ate it, crying as I went.
Not long after, a string of message tones went off.
Lucretia had sent a photo of the two of them eating.
Like a taunt, they'd ordered a table piled with dishes.
Her cheeks were stuffed full, and Mark was smiling at her with doting tenderness, reaching over to wipe a smear of grease from the corner of her mouth.
I stared at the all-too-familiar dishes, lost in a daze.
That restaurant had taken me ages to plan around. Last year, for my birthday, I'd booked the window seat far in advance.
But I'd waited until the food went stone cold, until the restaurant closed, and Mark never showed.
It wasn't until the next day that he explained, his face full of guilt.
"Ava, I'm sorry. Lucretia and I went out on a field study and got stranded in the mountains. I couldn't make it back in time."
Seeing how worn out he looked, I didn't have the heart to scold him. Instead I smiled and told him it was fine, that there'd be plenty of chances to eat there later.
But later I learned there had been no getting stranded in the mountains.
He'd simply wanted to watch the stars with the girl. Even the field study was just an excuse.
"Wife of my master, here's the leftovers boxed up for you to take home. Don't forget to eat them, okay!"
I blocked her in return, dragged my suitcase out, and went to live at the office.
I glanced back at the marital home Mark and I had decorated together, piece by piece with our own hands, and felt my heart turn cold inch by inch.
Ten years of love, and it had still come to this.
On the way to the hospital for my follow-up, I passed the familiar high-end jewelry store.
I remembered that today was the pickup day for the engagement ring Mark and I had chosen.
As if drawn by some unseen hand, I pushed the door open. The first thing I saw was him holding Lucretia's hand, gently slipping a diamond ring onto her finger.
The clerk smiled and complimented Lucretia on her lovely fingers, saying what a devoted, well-matched couple they made.
Lucretia's cheeks flushed pink. She covered her mouth and gave a coy little laugh.
"Don't tease me. This is my master."
"I'm just trying it on for his wife. But my fingers are slender, so it might not fit her."
"This ring will probably have to be resized."
Mark raised an eyebrow and said nothing, but his gaze never left her fingertips.
Once, my own ten fingers had been slender and perfectly even. In college I'd been my professor's most prized student.
When I gave up painting to study exhibition curating, my professor lamented it again and again, taking my hands in his, saying it was such a shame for these hands not to hold a brush.
