So I used it.
I roasted a piece of beef, somehow pulled off potatoes dauphenois and boiled green beans which I was serving with fresh bread from the bakery and, after, my homemade pecan pie with cream for dessert. I called out to Frey at his stump (by this time, the sun was long gone so he was chopping in the totally frigid, totally dark evening and doing it by torchlight) twenty minutes before I reckoned it would be done, he quit ten minutes later and came to the table washed.
That was good.
He sat at the table and scooped out food on his plate without really noticing (and definitely not commenting on) the obvious effort I’d made.
That was bad.
When he was about to commence eating, I asked quietly, “Can you open the wine?”
That was when he looked at me, he looked at the table, half of his mouth hitched up for a millisecond then he got up and opened the wine we bought in town. Then he poured it. Then he sat down and commenced eating.
I started eating too and was pretty pleased with the results. The potatoes were burnt a little on the top but the roast was done to perfection, nice and brown on the outside, nice and pink on the inside.
Frey made light work of it and, even after tasting it, didn’t say a word.
This was bad too.
Or, perhaps, chopping wood gave you an appetite.
I decided to think of it that way.
He had refilled his glass of wine (and topped up mine) and was reaching for seconds when I decided conversation was in order.
And I also decided what we were talking about.
And I’d also spent a great deal of time while baking and cooking deciding how I was going to talk about it.
“Uh… Frey?” I called.
He showed me he’d heard and was listening by looking at me.
“Can we talk about something important?” I asked.
He stopped cutting into a slice of meat and gave me his full attention. “And what’s important to you, wife?”
“Um…” I started and stopped.
Frey put his silverware on his plate and aimed a minor scowl at me. It wasn’t terrifying but it wasn’t his best look either.
“I have manhandled you,” he made this surprising and maybe a little weird admission then went on to explain why he did it, “but I have never hurt you. This…” he paused, “hesitancy in speaking to me has not been earned.”
Well, it was interesting he thought that, but…
“And,” he continued, “it’s beginning to be trying.”
“I –” I started but he kept talking.
“Indeed, what you said this morning, I will agree with for it is visibly obvious. I am a big man and you are not a big woman. But I have never given you cause to think I’d do you harm.”
That was interesting he thought that too. And not entirely true.
“So,” he concluded, “it would please me greatly if you would stop with your ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ and just say what’s on your mind.”
“Okay,” I returned swiftly, mainly because, after having spent hours cooking, making dessert and setting it all out nicely, as well as deliberating on how I was going to say what I needed to say, only for him to hijack the conversation and be a dick about it, I was suddenly wicked ticked off. “What was on my mind was that I was going to tell you I liked you.”
Frey did a slow blink, showing surprise, but I didn’t care. That was just how wicked ticked off I was.