He hates sushi; always has. In fact he hates anything that grows, or swims through water. So when he comes back to the table with a plate lacking the normal chicken nugget substitute, but overflowing with sushi, crab, salmon, oysters and a veggie stir fry, I am at a loss for words. I mean what is he trying to prove? Why is he torturing himself this way? Does he think eating my favorite foods will make me love him again?
He is smiling as he is trying not to gag on his mouthful. Lilly says “Daddy you are turning pink!” She looks as concerned and confused by his food selection as I am as I sit across from him struggling for an explanation to his behavior that doesn’t have "desperate act, desperate man" written all over it.
Fact is though, there is none. I can’t decide whether this is a good sign or a bad one. And as I watch the spectacle, the plate becomes oddly symbolic me. It is as if somehow our entire relationship is summed up in this struggle of who is going to swallow what and why. One way or another, either I will have to choke down his chicken nuggets, or he will gag on sushi, day after day and all in the name of love.
What boggles my mind though, the question that keeps me up at night, is whether this scene, Nic force feeding himself my desires, my ideals, over and over, is sweet and touching, or hopelessly sad and pathetic.
I still don’t know.