ON THE NOSTALGIA OF DRIED APRICOTS AND OTHER GARBAGE by Jeanann Verlee
I am 41. Standing at the Formica counter of a roach-friendly Queens apartment five lifetimes ago, I crumble gorgonzola over flatbread dough, then stud it with gems of diced dried apricot and fresh thyme—ready for the oven. The man I chose to wed is miles away in the next room weighing down the couch as he wrestles his way through another hangover, offering some caustic rebuke of my failures.Today I failed to provide the right sports drink, so I’m fucking stupid and goddamn selfish. Wordless, I return to the grocery, buy two six-packs of whatever he prefers. Something pink, as I recall. Sugar-free. I slam the sweating bottles on the coffee table directly between his mottled red eyes and the Rick and Morty marathon he’s prioritized for the day. Now I am a fucking child. He’s right, I suppose. Passive aggression is a reflex for any child raised by drunks. Back in the kitchen, I mash the now-stale apricot cheese mix into the dough, a silent rage. I crush it to a pulp until it oozes between my fingers, staining my cuticles blue. Garbage. Everything is garbage.He shuns me for the rest of the afternoon. I take myself out for a late brunch and mimosa. Daydream my blissful exit (simple: never return). Later, I whisper back to walk the dog because he won’t and I’m expected to and there’s no reason for the dog to suffer. Garbage. Everything.The man I chose to wed ignores me with ferocity. Shuns me through the night into late morning. Orders breakfast delivery from our favorite diner, offers me none. I walk the dog. Pick at a plate of crackers. Tackle a bag of laundry.When he’s ready to forgive, he finds me in another room sorting his socks. No further mention of my wretchedness. He grunts his way into me without a word. I am absolved, so I stay. Never again mistaking the wrong sports drink. Never again attempting gorgonzola-apricot flatbread.I let him steal tiny bits of me like this for years.