She walks through the small, crowded house to put another log on the fire. The winter is especially bitter this year, sneaking under the windowsills and door frames. She asked him to fix that, but he was busy as usual.
“I’ll get to that as soon as I can,” he said. That’s what he always says. He never has time for anything around the house, which means after fifteen requests, she ends up doing it herself. She walks back across the living room back to the window and shoves it down hard. The wind cuts off just a little. She snuggles in her wool robe and shivers just a little. She’ll be warmer when he gets back.
To the kitchen now, the smell of soup on the stove. He loves soup. After the cold, nothing in the world is as good as soup. Vegetables and meat simmering in a thick broth. More of a stew, really. She thought she’d surprise him. There’s bread in the oven and when she opens the door, the smell fills the kitchen, making her stomach rumble. She smiles as she turns the heat down… and grabs a little piece. She baked honey into the crust this year. The crust is crunchy and the meat of the bread melts on her tongue. Perfect.
As she walks back to the living room, she catches sight of herself in the oven’s reflection. She stops. Puts her hands on her belly. Her girlish figure is almost gone. Slender hips, thin waist, sloping shoulders. She laughs. Now, she has a woman’s shape. When he tells her she’s still beautiful, she just blushes and drops her eyes to the floor. He’s always been like that. Never had an unkind thing to say about anyone. She’s never seen him bite his tongue, never seen him make an angry frown, never seen his brow curl. Not once. His hands, so large, so gentle. He’s so strong… and she knows he’d fight if he had to. But that laughter of his is just so contageous. She laughs a little now, even thinking about it.
She walks back to the living room now, sits back down in the living room, picking up her knitting. It’s a long, red scarf he can wear. He keeps losing them. As soon as she sits down, the patio door opens outside. She looks up from her chair, her fingers stopping. She can hear him stomping his boots in the little room. Then, she hears his boots slide off his feet and her mind imagines him there, his thick socks soaked. When he opens the door, his coat is covered in snow.
“Hello wife,” he says, standing in the door.
“Hello husband,” she says in reply. “You’re back early.”
He nods. “Good wind,” he says.
“Your slippers are here, by the fire.” She gestures with her knitting needles.
“That’s sweet,” he says, lumbering across the room toward the fire.
“I do it every year.”
He bends down and kisses her cheek. “That doesn’t make it any less sweet.”
He sits down in his chair. “What smells so good?” he asks.
“Stew,” she says. “It’s almost done.”
His chair creaks as he leans back in it. “Got to fix that,” he says.
“Got to fix a lot of things,” she says, her voice a littlle sharp.
“Don’t tease me, now, woman!” he says, his big smile betraying any hint of anger. “I’ve had a long night.”
“Yes,” she says. “And it’s all over now.” She gets up from her chair and walks over to where he’s lying back, his eyes shut and resting. “You just rest. I’ll get you that stew.”
He nods, his eyes still shut. His lips chattering from the cold still hiding inside his bones. “You always make such good stew,” he says. “Does it have…?”
“Of course it does,” she says from the kitchen. She fetches the ladel and a bowl, and in a moment, she’s back, the stew steaming from the bowl, the hot bread on a plate. And in his chair, his eyes are still shut, but his breath is even, and a small snore sneaks up from his throat.
“Kris?” she asks. “Do you…” then, she stops. She sits down in her chair and stirs the stew in the bowl. Takes a sip. The meat is tender and the vegetables are hot.
“You jolly old fool,” she says quietly, sipping the stew with a smile.
He answers with a snore.
