"Big day?" I asked.
"Always," he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek without looking up.
The kiss landed near my ear.
I told myself not to be sensitive.
He was busy. He was always busy.
"Your lunch is on the counter."
"Thanks, babe."
He grabbed his keys, his phone, and his laptop bag. Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I rinsed my coffee mug, wiped a smear of jam off the counter, and turned to start the dishwasher. That was when I saw it.
The lunchbox.
It sat there by the toaster, blue lid snapped tight, full of chicken I had actually put effort into. For a second, I stared at it and thought, "Okay, that is on him."
He was a grown man. He forgot it. He could suffer through mystery cafeteria chicken.
But then I pictured the food sitting there all day. I pictured my work turning cold and wasted. I pictured Jeremy coming home with that tired, hollow look he had worn too often lately.
