To Watch A Man Eat

Art by Kira Salter-Gurau

Your mom’s boyfriend is a groaner. His sighs sound like an avalanche heaving down the side of a mountain. The groans reverberate through the walls accompanying every activity from browsing the fridge to movie nights. He has neck, teeth, and knee problems from working on a boatyard. Also, he plays the bongos when he’s happy. You can hear him banging away as you drive around the dirt driveway. “Must be in a good mood,” your mother says, turning the key and smiling. 

Six years ago at Bow Street Market, he bumped into your mother whilst reeking of divorce. Your mother’s separation two years prior from her ex, your father, created the kind of tension that required flowers and dinner. Two years later, he’d move into your house, eat your food, and ask you how your day was. Now, every morning, before the girls and sun rise, they share Earl Grey from a cast iron pot. 

Your mother wakes up at 5:00 a.m. to make some kind of baked goods. She lays out an apple turnover and cup of tea on the table, her scalpel and blade. She claims that she wakes up naturally after having had four children. You think she wakes up early to catch the quiet before it’s gone. 

An hour later, your mother’s boyfriend, stirred by his own snores, shuffles downstairs in his flannel and takes a seat at the table. He’ll anticipate his tea and orange cranberry scone as your mother affectionately kisses his forehead before pouring tea. He’ll pour his own milk. If a man can’t control the milk in his tea, he controls nothing. Your mother will talk about needing to find a recipe for the chickpea pasta she made recently while making a note to visit the post office in her notebook.

After five minutes, she’ll spring up to marinate chicken for dinner while her boyfriend finishes his tea. She'll start on the wash before running to the kitchen to put his plate in the sink. He’ll leave his cup on the table as he gets up to put his shoes on. She’ll bring him his hat and pull out the leftovers from last night’s dinner to pack in a lunchbox with a cheese stick and a Lärabar. She’ll kiss him goodbye as you come into the bathroom to brush your teeth. You’ll hear the car rumble down the road. You’ll squint your eyes in the bright light of the bathroom, as the mornings have been dark lately. The car will bang loudly as it hits the big pothole down the road and you’ll spit in the sink. 

Upon returning home, he’ll drop his belongings by the door, take a kiss from your mother, and settle for a quarter glass of beer from the week old bottle in the fridge. He’ll groan as he sits, asking, “Cheese tonight?” Before the words leave his mouth, she’ll swoop by with a wooden cutting board brimming with gouda, grapes, almonds, and chocolate in a porcelain bowl. She’ll lay it before him.

It took your mother ages to craft this cornucopia, so as a self-assigned protector, you watch as he reaches for his beer. You imagine his eyes glazing over with some treasure-obsessed thirst, his hands rummaging through this abundant display of cheeses. His hands, rough from the life of a pirate on the boats all day, tearing through the grapes, ripping them from their vines. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand, he’d slam his fist down on the table, demanding another glass of beer and a refill of the rosemary crackers. On this imaginary pirate ship, your mother, a scullery maid, would run over and pour the remains of the crackers into his lap, the pieces falling to the floor by his slippers. He’d devour them in seconds, bellowing for “MORE!” Your mother would tell him that she had no more so he’d grab her hand and chomp down on her knuckles. 

In reality, he’ll gently pile the cheese on top of the cracker and pick at the almonds till they're gone. He’ll put on some James Taylor, stopping for a second to blink away the sting in his eyes, asking, “Hon, do you know where I put the eyedrops?”

You'll wonder about how she keeps this up, allowing this pillaging to persist. Once, you questioned her about his lack of dishwashing, searching in her eyes for a plea for assistance. She calmly sipped her tea and justified it as a tradeoff for things like mowing the lawn and bringing in groceries. This answer was unsatisfying. You want more for her than housewifery, than the domestic. You would want more for yourself. You could never serve a man in the way she does, taking part in such a setup, feeding him. 

He serenades her near the stove with “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You)”, and they sway together in their kitchen bliss. Earlier today, he stopped to buy her flowers which she put in a vase that now sits on the dining table. Their lives wrap around the dining table. You look around at the house that he renovated for her, and think about how he never let her do any work since she has a bad back. 

You wave goodbye as they go on a walk together before dinner and watch them disappear, arm in arm, down the dirt road. He stops to point out the full moon to her before walking on. Suddenly, you’re grateful for the company he provides her.

“I wanna stop and thank you baby!” he comes back singing, and makes a fire. You forgive them for how “man and wife” they are. While you fear it, your mother seems to find peace in this role, how easy it is. Moving to the living room that he built for her, you sit in front of the crackling fire. You let the warmth embrace you and let them be.