Little Victories

I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the front door slams shut. Heavy footsteps pound against the tile floor and Wheatnic, our golden retreiver, bounds happily to greet his 'dad' home from work. I wish I still felt that enthusiasm for my spouse. For the millionth time, I'm grateful my faithful four-legged companion doesn't mirror my bitterness. Otherwise, I wouldn't have time to steady my nerves and arrange my features into something other than spite.

"What's for dinner?" The words sound more like a command than a question.

I scoop the chopped onions with a shaky hand and throw them into the pan of browning meat. "Tacos."

"There'd better be salsa this time. I won't eat no dry tacos again." He flops onto the couch and uses alternating feet to push off his disgusting work boots, toe to heel, toe to heel.

I retrieve the salsa from the fridge, and shake it in his direction, eying his shoes warily knowing there is now feces on my freshly vaccuumed carpet. As a plumber, there isn't a day where my husband doesn't come into conact with human refuse, or at least stomp through it.

Mark harrumphs. "Good. When's it gonna be ready? I'm starving."

Pouring the packet of taco seasoning onto the meat, I grit my teeth, grateful my back faces the couch. "About five minutes. Can you help me by getting out the plates?" I know the request is futile, but for some dumb reason, I keep up the pretense that our marriage isn't a farce because, after twelve years, I know better.

"Why? You're already in the kitchen. Just get them yourself. I shouldn't have to waste my energy when you're already there."

I straighten my shoulders, my lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course. That's definately more efficient." Reaching for the plates, I'm careful not to let the hem of my oversized t-shirt fall into the chocolate cake on the counter. I smile ruefully, knowing he's watching to make sure I comply.

"What's the cake for?" Mark leans forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees.

He's already drooling, so I shouldn't be so nervous, he'll never know.

"I found a recipe for a Mexican chocolate cake, and I thought since we were having tacos, why not?" I work to keep my tone light so he doesn't get suspicious. I haven't made treats on a whim in years, usually, it's only at his demand.

Mark rubs at his chin, nodding, the pull of the dessert distracting him from asking any more questions. "Maybe I'll have a slice while you finish those tacos." He heaves himself off the couch, scratching at his overly round belly that strains against the buttons of his stained, gray work shirt.

Commanding myself to remain calm, I shrug at his request and get down a small side plate and pass him a knife from the drawer. "Help yourself."

My heart is in my throat as I watch him cut through the frosted shiny surface into the moist layers beneath. I hold my breath as he lifts the piece of cake onto his plate, relieved to see the texture doesn't look off from the added ingredients.

Wheatnic barks at Mark's side, startling us both. "Quiet, boy!" he yells. "What's your problem?" Mark kicks at the dog and the golden whimpers, but keeps pace, practically tripping Mark as he makes his way over to the tiny round kitchen table. "Go, away, Wheatnic!"

"I don't know why he's acting this way," I lie, rushing over to grab my dog's collar, and chastising myself for not thinking to put him outside. Of course, he'd be able to smell my improvised recipe.

Wheatnic strains against my hold, barking again as Mark takes his first bite. "Put that stupid dog outside," he mumbles around the chocolate and frosting.

Grunting, I wrestle the golden outside and shut the door. Wheatnic stands vigilantly behind glass, barking freely now that he's not in the house.

Mark shakes his head and shovels in another piece of cake. "There's a hint of cinnamon in this," he says, staring at his plate, clearly surprised by the unexpected flavor.

"Yes," I agree quickly, "lots of Mexican recipes use cinnamon." I work to steady my breathing, but Mark still seems oblivious as he finishes his dessert.

I stir the taco meat one last time before I reach for Mark's empty dish. "Would you like a taco now?"

He shakes his head and pushes my hand away before motioning to the counter. "I'll have another piece of that cake."

My smile is genuine this time and the tension is gone from my shoulders as I serve him up another helping. Who knew it only took two teaspoons of cinnamon to hide the taste of Wheatnic's poop?