As soon as the cheese spectacle was done she grabbed the remaining scraps of cheese that apparently didn’t fit and moved to the sink. She dropped them down the drain and turned the water on so hot steam began to rise from the stainless basin. What a waste. He would’ve eaten those pieces. He was about to tell her so, but was cut off from speaking when the roar of the garbage disposal clicked on. He was going to say something when it clicked off, but then she clicked it on again. And off. And on twice more. It was beginning to sound like Morse code and he forgot what he wanted to say.
She moved back to the sandwiches and made an X with mustard then placed a dot inside two of the triangular mustarded off sections and a line in the other two. She did the exact same thing to the other slice of bread.
He frowned at her. His mouth was hanging open in confusion by the time she held slices of lettuce at eye level and carefully tore away edges until they were as identical as they could get. Mason’s wife was definitely a weird bird.
She smiled when she finally seemed satisfied with the green leaves. The manicured roughage was strategically centered on the sandwich. The scraps went into the disposal. The same Morse code was applied for what seemed to be proper grinding.
She didn’t talk while she worked. She was so focused Sean didn’t know how she could have managed a conversation. It was like she was in another place and had forgotten he was watching her. The two sandwiches were sliced diagonally and organized like a pinwheel on a plate. She poured a glass of juice from the fridge for him and opened a drawer to retrieve a perfectly folded white linen napkin.
He sat back thinking she would hand the plate to him, but she turned and disappeared into some closet on the far wall. She returned with a glass jar filled with pretzel sticks. After twisting off the metal lid and retrieving four perfect pretzels and throwing away a broken one, she laid each stick between each sandwich slice.
Out of a bowl organized so nicely he mistook it for a decoration, she carefully selected an orange and placed it by the plate. She went to the closet and came back with another orange to replace the one she just removed. Her full lips silently counted out six oranges. Her tongue was a deep shade of pink and Sean blinked that transient thought away. Using a large kitchen knife she methodically cut the fruit into six even slices and placed them in a small glass bowl so they resembled a star or a flower or some shit. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to go through all that trouble, but he was sort of interested to see what she would do next. She stepped back and eyed her creations and nodded, apparently satisfied.
He leaned back as Libby carried the plate, bowl, napkin, and cup over to where he sat and adjusted each item until the napkin was perfectly straight, the cup directly above it, the bowl exactly parallel from the cup to the left of the plate, and the plate turned so that the straight edges of the sandwiches formed a cross rather than an X.
“Bon appetit!”
He was sort of speechless. “Uh, thank you. It looks great.”
She beamed at him. Mase’s wife really had a beautiful face. She was more cute than glamorous, bright blue eyes with soft blonde lashes, pink full lips, and a pert little nose. She looked like an all American girl, but also like no one he’d ever seen before. He took a bite and shut his eyes as he groaned.
“This is delicious,” he said with a full mouth.
She nodded happily and began cleaning the counter where she’d made his dinner. He ate in silence and continued to watch. The cleanup was as much of a production as the preparation. She seemed to have a method for everything, the way she swept up the crumbs, the way she disposed of things, and washed the dishes. He winced when he noticed how red her hands were after washing the cutting board under steaming hot water, but she didn’t seem to notice. She also filled a spray bottle with piping hot water and used it to clean the counter after she bleached it. The clinical scent of disinfectant was so strong it permeated his nostrils and tainted the flavor of his lunch.
Afraid she’d burn her hands again, he offered to wash his own dishes, but that had the effect of a record skidding to a stop in the middle of a party. He realized immediately he’d overstepped and quickly muttered that she never mind. What the fuck kind of girl did Mase marry? Was this like some sort of Stepford shit?