The wife I forgot to love

Camila had been planning it for three days.

Damian did not know that. He came home on Thursday to the smell of something cooking and Camila in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and a recipe open on her phone propped against the fruit bowl and an expression on her face that was half concentration and half the quiet satisfaction of someone executing a plan.

"Do not come in here," she said when she heard his keys.

He stopped in the kitchen doorway anyway. "What are you making."

"Go and sit down." She pointed without looking up from the pan. "I am almost done and I do not want you standing over me while I finish."

He smiled slightly. "You are nervous."

"I am focused," she said. "There is a difference. Go."

He went.

He sat on the couch and loosened his tie and checked his phone and listened to the sounds from the kitchen. The hiss of something in a pan. Camila humming something quietly. The particular domestic sounds of someone making an effort and wanting you to notice without being told to notice.

He noticed.

After a while she appeared in the doorway with two plates and her chin lifted in the way it lifted when she was proud of something.

"Sit at the table," she said.

He sat at the table.

She set the plate in front of him and sat across from him and folded her hands and looked at him expectantly. On the plate was chicken. Golden and herb crusted. Roasted vegetables alongside it. A wedge of lemon on the side.

"It is rosemary chicken," she said. "Apparently it is your favourite. I found that out from somewhere and I wanted to learn it properly."

Damian looked at the plate.

Something moved through him that he did not immediately have a name for. He looked at the chicken. At the herbs scattered across the top of it. At the particular golden colour of it that comes from the right temperature and the right amount of time and someone who has paid attention to what they are doing.

"You made this," he said.

"I made this," she confirmed. "Three attempts over the past week. The first two were not acceptable. This one is." She looked at him steadily. "Try it."

He picked up his fork.

He cut a piece of the chicken and put it in his mouth.

The taste was good. She had got the recipe right. The rosemary was there the way it was supposed to be, warm and slightly sharp, and the chicken was cooked properly all the way through and the whole thing was genuinely well done.

And the moment the taste hit the back of his tongue something happened in his chest that had nothing to do with Camila or the effort she had made or the three attempts over the past week.

It was the smell.

It was specifically the smell.

Rosemary and roasted chicken and something underneath it that his body recognised before his mind had caught up with what it was recognising. It was the smell of his own kitchen. The old kitchen. The one in the Greystone house with the wooden table they had bought together at a market and the dish towel that always hung on the left handle of the oven because that was where it always went. It was the smell of a Thursday evening a long time ago and a plate set down in front of him by hands that knew without being told that Thursday was the right day for this particular meal.

He set his fork down for a moment.

Just for a moment.

"Is it okay," Camila said. Watching him.

"It is good," he said. "It is really good, Camila."

She smiled. The full warm smile she had when something landed the way she wanted it to. "I told you."

He smiled back. He picked up his fork again.

He ate.

He said the right things and asked the right questions and the evening moved forward the way it was supposed to move forward and Camila talked about the recipe and what had gone wrong the first two times and what she had changed on the third and she was animated and warm and present and genuinely pleased with herself in a way that was easy to be around.

He listened to all of it.

And underneath all of it, quiet and persistent as a low note in a song you cannot get out of your head, was the smell of rosemary sitting in his chest and the specific unbidden thought that had arrived with the first bite and had not left since.

He had not said it out loud.

He would not say it out loud.

But it was there.

Helena used to make this.

He put more effort than usual into the conversation after that. Asked Camila follow up questions about the difficult client she had mentioned earlier in the week. Asked about her sister who was visiting next month. Listened carefully and responded properly and was present in all the ways that mattered on the outside.

But the thought did not move.

It just sat there in the way that certain thoughts sit. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just with the quiet persistence of something that has decided it belongs in the room and is not going anywhere because you have not asked it to leave and asking it to leave would require acknowledging it arrived in the first place.

Not the words exactly. More like the fact of it. Just the plain simple fact sitting quietly at the table with them like a third person neither of them had invited. She used to make this on Thursdays. She used to start it at five-thirty so it would be ready by the time he came home. She used to remember without being told that the lemon version was too sharp and he preferred the plain rosemary. He had mentioned it once, casually, the way he mentioned most things, and she had remembered. Just filed it away somewhere and remembered.

He had not thought about that in months.

He reached for his wine.

Camila was saying something about dessert. She had bought something from the good bakery on the east side. She was pleased about that too. Everything about this evening was something she had considered and planned and executed for him.

He knew that.

He appreciated it.

He picked his fork up again and finished the chicken and told Camila it was the best thing she had ever made which was true and made her laugh and the evening continued and was warm and was good and was everything it was supposed to be.

He just could not make the thought leave.

It sat there through dessert and through the quiet hour on the couch after and through the drive of her words and the warmth of her beside him.

Helena used to make this.

By the time he went to bed he had almost convinced himself it meant nothing.

Almost.

In the dark he lay on his back and looked at the ceiling and listened to Camila breathing beside him and told himself that a smell was just a smell. That a memory was just a memory. That the brain connects things without permission and without meaning and that it meant nothing at all that his first thought on tasting rosemary chicken made by one woman was the name of another.

It meant nothing.

He closed his eyes.

He went to sleep.