Restraining My Competence: A Radical Take on Domestic Peace

I knew my competence would yield no reward, so I delayed it. I knew being capable yielded no power, so I restrained it. Power can be achieved by watching; it is a simple, heavy thing, that ends up mattering more.

There was something dead in the room. It was the warmth, and he was quiet. Someone was meant to do what was to be done: the thinking, the meal and planning of where to go. It wasn’t going to be me. I had planned to see only what was in front of me. Myself. Me.

He offered fasting to get me to refuse my writing, and I offered no companion for his solo walk on an empty stomach. He offered the restraint of a numberless budget. He offered me his flat stomach and I was bloated with his poor money management.

As a watcher of the ordinary I watched and saw families taking pictures of the blossoms watching us. I smiled to myself. I heard a laugh that didn’t come from the seagulls. The human out of sight was the green woodpecker, and it made me breathe more easily to get it so wrong; as I settled under the tree with a bee to keep me company while he sat there in a state of inanity.

* * *

The supermarket he said was expensive yielded us scones with four in a pack for £1.50. It kept us full for a while. He tapped his google phone, but the receipt was mostly empty. That was all we spent.

He was in a supine position on the bed I had just made. His pupils were invigilating my movements. It was quick without caffeine. I should’ve remained equable and stayed sluggish the way he was after his final gulp.

I knew there was no onion powder, no garlic powder. He claimed an absent mind would make the girl work harder. Then he suggested we fast as he looked at my thicker thighs, a smooth criminal act to preserve his own vital energy. Later, he learnt that we didn’t have these powders. These were the things that made his favourite meal.

When we made it to the kitchen, we didn’t reach for anything. There was tension in our arms and the house was quiet; everybody was in their rooms. I didn’t panic. His hours were reduced. I didn’t care. We were building muscles as we waited for the other person to act.

I reached first for the lower cupboard, the place with all the bright coloured caps for the seasonings: paprika, cumin, mixed herbs. I picked up each one despite already reading the names. As he performed his own search, his nasal laugh was strained.

It didn’t flow menacingly like the green woodpecker, but it was unmistakably human. The cachinnation was fried and virulent, meant to disperse venom. It was a laugh that always seemed out of place, but made sense only after things unfolded.

I checked the same spot twice. The seasonings on the top of the counter near the stove, the lower cupboard. I let him know that there was nothing there and it was his responsibility. The contained snort returned.

The kitchen dissolved into a Polaroid of me at the stove, making meal after meal, I, a developing image I no longer recognised. I could almost smell the sausage stew and tossing all the ingredients together for the potato salad the next day. I could’ve screamed at being inside a puzzle where my shape was jagged instead of smooth, I didn’t match anymore. I could’ve rescued him but I wasn't a butler nor was I a maid with cash in my bra.

He knew the old me, but he will soon begin to admire the new unstoppable feline. I became stoic in my glance and only wore a brooch of my own validation.

* * *

He picked up a tall bottle of water. Empty. So he refilled it. I went towards the back door and I looked at his mother’s clothes on the line with no comment. He drank. I knew his hunger was setting in for him, but I couldn’t feel my hunger because I was calmer than him.

His clothes were still upstairs, streaming over the laundry bag in a panic overflow of his own worth. I blinked. He took my hand and kissed the back of it, his shoulders were loose and there was an expression of ease: a micro smile as he released his control and saw me.

The kiss was a performance of chivalry that was as dead as the mistresses they were meant for. It didn’t help his knight status and it didn’t give me butterflies. Even though he was wearing black, I didn’t respond to his testosterone. I didn’t want romance, only what was functional. I was cinched by the waist and he became effaced under my gaze, taking the loss for what it was. I didn’t take the win, because it wasn’t a battle I signed up for.

* * *

I watched him from the back as he moved towards the cupboard near the stove. I remained at the back entrance, distanced from the stove and his newfound labor. He figured out what to make: rice, sweet peas, broth with scrambled eggs peeking through in every bite. It took no thought. It was a meal without power; it was a dish without stress. I have learnt how to become a man; I will choose the easy way out. I will choose no stress.