THE RECIPE

The kitchen tiles felt cold beneath Henry’s feet. A morning chill crept through the crevices of windows and door frames, though the warmth of bed still lingered on his skin. The sound of the dishwasher, which ran persistently through the night, had stopped. Now, the steaming dishes hummed softly with the fever of cleanliness. Henry stopped in front of the stove, the kettle clanking awkwardly onto the old gas burner. 

Twenty-two. It was ironic, really. They had been twenty-two themselves when they had first met. He remembered it so clearly. The walls of wood panels, the carpets of crepe, and the scorched lampshades from when the electrical system blew. Life was basked with beige, but she had doused it in color. Henry’s fingers slid along the side of the counter, tracing the grouted cracks as his mind passed through the track of his memory. 

Twenty-two. It wasn’t surprising, really. They had been foolish to think they could ever last. Yet, they had hoped--no, promised--to try. The crescendo of the kettle’s hiss pulled him away from his thoughts. 

“Hmmph.” 

The morning was always fresh with mindless thoughts. He was usually able to brush them aside, however, and go on with his day just the same. But today, something was different. Behind all his avoidance and defense and willful ignorance came a feeling akin to guilt. 

Riiing. Riiiing. Riiiiiiing. 

“Hello?” 

His voice was gruff and cold. He didn’t like calls early in the morning, but he made it a point never to miss any, just in case…well, in case it was important.

“Henry?” 

The familiar voice crackled through the line. He knew the voice well, too well, and as he affirmed the inquiry, his response left a taste of bitterness in his mouth. The voice of a wife is not usually startling, but the voice of an ex-wife? That is entirely different. 

“I tried to reach you, but I failed.” 

“Huh?” 

“I tried calling yesterday, but you weren’t around.” 

“Ah.”

Henry grumbled in annoyance. 

“So, I supposed you were out or busy and thought I’d try today.” 

“Hmmph.” 

“I had intended to call about my old recipe book. I’m missing my bran muffins. I just have a feeling that the card slipped out and is probably stuck on those God-forsaken shelves you never organized.” 

Henry glanced over to a tall bookcase, its contents in disarray.

“I took care of them, Helen.” 

“Well… I’m glad. I guess it’s a good thing that you finally got that sorted out after twenty years.” 

“Twenty-two.” 

“Huh?” 

“Twenty-two years…” muttered Henry. 

“Oh.” 

“Actually, twenty-two years to the day.” 

Silence. 

“I know, Henry.” 

“That’s why you called, isn’t it?” 

“I never planned to call today. I told you--I tried to reach you…” 

“That’s right.” 

Henry felt mildly foolish in thinking she could have called for him. Why on earth would she want to remind herself of the life they no longer lived? Why would she want to speak to the one person who changed the meaning and importance of this date not once but twice? 

“Henry, I--” Helen’s voice was weak. 

“I know.” 

“Henry?” 

“Yes?”

“I tried to reach you…but” 

“I know.” 

Click. 

Helen sat rigidly in her armchair. With one hand she returned the receiver to the phone base. With the other, she grasped a worn piece of paper. Across the top, it faintly read: Bran Muffins.