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The Last Bite
My wife is trying to kill me.
Slowly. Methodically. One forkful at a time. She's been at it for years now, and I have to admire the commitment. The long game. The absolute refusal to let me eat a reasonable portion of anything.
'Here,' she says, pushing her plate toward me. 'Finish this.'
We're at dinner. A nice dinner, the kind with cloth napkins and a wine list that requires reading glasses. She's had the scallops. I've had the short rib. Both were excellent. Both were enough. And now she's offering me her last scallop like I'm a golden retriever who's been eyeing the table.
I'm not hungry.
I'm never hungry when she does this.
I eat it anyway.
This is the arrangement. I don't remember agreeing to it. I don't remember a conversation where we established that Tina would, for the rest of our lives, offer me the last bite of everything she ever eats and I would, for the rest of mine, accept it. And yet here we are. Ten years in. The scallop is perfect. I am full. I regret nothing.
The thing is, she doesn't do it consciously. That's what kills me. It's not a performance. It's not generosity she wants credit for. She just... does it. Eats her meal, enjoys her meal, and then somewhere around the seventy-percent mark, her brain apparently sends a signal that says save some for Bette. Like I'm a contingency plan. Like I'm a small animal she's responsible for feeding.
I've tested this theory.
Once, at a breakfast place in Silver Lake, I watched her eat an entire omelet without offering me anything. I was stunned. Betrayed, almost. Had the contract been broken? Had I done something wrong? Was this the beginning of the end?
Then she got to the last bite of toast. Pushed the plate toward me. 'You want this?'
The relief I felt was, frankly, embarrassing.
I have a graduate degree. I have run a major gallery. I have been described in print as 'formidable' and 'uncompromising' and, on one memorable occasion, 'a force of nature in four-inch heels.' And I am emotionally dependent on my wife offering me the end of her toast.
This is what love does to a person. It makes you pathetic in ways you never saw coming.
I've tried to catalog the pattern. I'm a cataloguer by nature, I have lists, I have systems, I have an entire mental archive of Things About Tina organized by category and cross-referenced by date. The Last Bite is its own subfolder.
Desserts: always. Without exception. She will eat eighty percent of a tiramisu and then hand me the spoon like she's passing a baton. Like I've been waiting. Like it's my birthright.
Appetizers: usually. Especially if it's something she ordered and I didn't. There's a generosity there that borders on smug. You should have gotten the burrata. Here, have mine. See how good it is. See what you missed.
Entrees: selectively. She won't offer me the last bite of a salad, because she knows I don't want the last bite of a salad. She knows I want the last bite of her pasta, her fish, her whatever-looks-better-than-what-I-ordered. And so that's what she offers. The good stuff. The thing I've been eyeing.
She reads me like a menu.
I don't offer her the last bite of anything.
I've thought about this. I've interrogated myself about it, late at night, wondering if I'm the selfish one, the taker, the person who receives without reciprocating. And I've concluded: yes. Probably. But also: she doesn't want me to.
I offered once. Early on. Maybe year two. I had a piece of cake and there was one bite left and I pushed it toward her, very pleased with myself, very look-at-me-being-generous.
She looked at the cake. Looked at me. 'You don't have to do that.'
'I want to.'
'You don't. You want that bite. Eat the bite.'
She was right. I wanted the bite. I ate the bite. I have not offered since.
This is what she does. She sees the wanting in me, all of it, the hunger and the need and the embarrassing parts I try to hide, and she just... makes room for it. Feeds it. Doesn't ask me to be better than I am.
Is that love? It might be love.
Last week we were on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn, watching something terrible that she'd chosen and I'd agreed to because I am, despite my reputation, a pushover for her. The popcorn was nearly gone. Just kernels and crumbs and a few last pieces at the bottom.
She picked out the three best ones, the ones with the most butter, the most salt, the ones you dig for, and held them out to me.
'Here.'
I looked at her hand. Her fingers, shiny with butter. The popcorn sitting in her palm like an offering.
'Those are the good ones,' I said.
'I know.'
'You should eat them.'
'I want you to have them.'
And there it was. The whole thing, right there, in a handful of popcorn. I want you to have them. I want you to have the good ones. I want you to have the best of what I've got, even if it's just three pieces of popcorn on a Tuesday night, even if it means nothing, even if you won't remember it tomorrow.
I'll remember it tomorrow.
I'll remember all of them. Every last bite. Every pushed plate. Every silent offer across a table, a couch, a bed. The way she feeds me like it's involuntary. Like she can't help it. Like loving me has become a reflex, built into her body, something she does without thinking because thinking isn't required anymore.
The scallop is gone. My plate is empty. Hers is empty. The waiter comes to clear, and Tina leans back in her chair with that satisfied look she gets after a good meal.
'That was perfect,' she says.
'It was.'
'You liked the scallop?'
'You know I did.'
She smiles. Not a big smile. Just that small curve at the corner of her mouth that means she's pleased. That she's gotten away with something. That she's fed her golden retriever and all is right with the world.
'Dessert?' the waiter asks.
We shouldn't. We're full. It's late. We have work tomorrow and a reservation that was already indulgent and a bill that will make me wince slightly when I sign it.
Tina looks at me. 'Split something?'
She knows what she's doing. She knows that 'split something' means she'll eat half and I'll eat the other half plus whatever she offers me from her half, which will be at least a third, possibly more. She knows I know this. She's doing it anyway.
'The chocolate thing,' I say to the waiter. 'Whatever the chocolate thing is.'
He nods. Leaves. Tina is still looking at me with that smile.
'You're going to eat most of it,' she says.
'Probably.'
'You always do.'
'You always let me.'
She shrugs. Like it's nothing. Like it costs her nothing to keep handing me the best parts of her plate, her meal, her life.
It's not nothing.
But I've stopped trying to explain that to her. She wouldn't understand. She thinks she's just sharing food. She doesn't know she's been writing me a love letter, one bite at a time, for ten years.
The chocolate thing arrives. She picks up her spoon.
I wait.