In the smallest cabinet beside the stove is a single plate, bowl, cup. Beside them is a set of silverware with red handles, his favorites of all the ones we own, which is no small number. He'd put a dozen silverware sets on our registry, not realizing that the others would remain on the list after one was claimed and another guest would think we still needed some. It makes me laugh to remember us opening all those boxes of knives and forks and spoons, arguing playfully about where the hell we were going to put them all. Drunk in love.
We did find places for them, in the end. Over the years we rotated them out -- Daniel insisted on this -- and sometimes he'd post pictures of us using them on Facebook and tag the gift-giver, write some trite caption underneath. Only he didn't think they were trite; he's unfailingly thoughtful and genuine, the kind of man who really does want you to get well soon, who really is thinking of you during your difficult time. He leaves the cynicism to me. I'm happy to supply it, to have a use for it that won't consume my life the way it did before we met. We complement each other like that, yin and yang, as he'd probably put it. Has put it, in fact, on our fifth anniversary card, and even once out loud, completely without irony, at a party. After he said it a friend of ours shot me a silly look and shook her head, and I rolled my eyes. But he believed it. Daniel never says anything he doesn't believe.
When I'm clearing the dishwasher I never put things in the same place twice, have no consistent order to anything in the kitchen. He used to make fun of me, used to tell people he felt like a stranger in his own house when he went to look for the mixer or the serving spoons. He hasn't mentioned it in a while. He's been quiet since the last visit to the ophthalmologist, when we were told that we needed to start making preparations. That it was time for Daniel to stop driving.
And now this lonely, single table setting, the certainty of its location, the low-cabinet being one I rarely bother with, rarely adjust. I'm a hard guy to make feel guilty, but Daniel's one of the few who can manage it without any effort.
I'm wondering how to feel about that when the front door opens, drags, closes, and he calls out to me with his winter cowl over his mouth, so of course I can't make out a thing he's saying.
"What?"
He sets a pile of grocery bags onto the island and slips the cowl over his head. From this distance he can't see my face clearly, so he frowns in my general direction, glare focused on my shoulder.
"You know what I said."
"How's that?"
"I say it all the time. Do you listen to me ever, at all?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but since I didn't hear what the fuck you said, I can't know for sure if I've heard it before, right?"
He tries to hold out but after a few seconds his face cracks into laughter and he melts toward me, into my arms. Gets snow all over my sweater. This close he can see me well and he's staring at my lips. He does this often now when we're close. Just stares.
"What's all that," I say finally.
"It's for dinner." He peels away and slips off his jacket and drapes it over one of the bar stools, getting snow all over the floor. I want to complain the way I usually do, but it's such a familiar gesture that all I feel is the warmth of recognition. I have to fight the sudden urge to take a picture, and how would I explain that? "The Uber to Newcastle was a fortune in this weather, but I found that cake mix, do you remember? The one that had powdered wine in it?"
"I forgot about that."
He's squinting hard at the items in the bags, rifling through them. He has glasses but he hates wearing them for anything but television. Says they make him dizzy when he walks or moves around.
"Right?"
"What made you think of that?"
He shakes his head and sets a head of lettuce to his right. "It's Valentine's Day, Mark."
