Cookies
Cookies
I
hated him that night. I was baking cookies, an innocent activity you might
think. Sometimes I would get into trouble for baking when it was hot out,
but the weather had just turned cool after a heat wave, and he had taken the air
conditioner out of the window earlier that day. They were raisin pecan
cookies, a new recipe, from a book that I was going to give my best friend for
her birthday but kept for myself. He had his back to me, doing the supper
dishes, my dishes included. Suddenly, he started cursing and swearing,
complaining that there were too many glasses in the sink, he was trying to
reduce the number of dishes, why couldn't we use the same glass all day?
His anger escalated, clunking the dishes around in the sink angrily, cursing all
the time over the amount of dishes, and me baking, why did I have to bake?
Why did I make more dishes for him to wash? I concentrated on my cookies,
dropping the batter by teaspoon onto the greased baking sheet, not saying
anything to him and dreaming of the day I would move out into my own place.
Spring 1998
