Chapter 4 - Pink Labels
The experiment began the following morning.
I made scrambled eggs with spinach, sliced fruit, a toasted bagel, and fresh coffee.
One serving.
David came downstairs in a wrinkled shirt.
“Where’s my coffee?”
“Make your own.”
He opened the refrigerator.
Pink labels covered everything I had purchased.
Eggs.
Milk.
Butter.
Cheese.
Ham.
Fruit.
Sparkling water.
Even the expensive coffee beans he praised whenever guests visited.
“Did you label the food?”
“Yes.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“You wanted separate finances.”
“I didn’t mean basic groceries.”
“Those cost money too.”
He found a loaf of bread he had purchased three weeks earlier. Two slices remained.
He ate one dry with hot sauce because every jar of peanut butter, jam, and honey carried my label.
I did not enjoy watching him struggle.
I enjoyed watching reality become visible.
That evening, he discovered the streaming services were in my name.
The next day, the house cleaner did not arrive because I had paused the service.
On Thursday, the meal-delivery app rejected his order when he tried using the household card I had removed from my account.
By Friday, David had spent more on takeout than his usual monthly contribution to our home.
Still, he acted as though the problem was my attitude.
“You’re being petty.”
“I’m being separate.”
“You know I’m busy.”
“So am I.”
Then Saturday arrived.
May you like
Victoria came expecting brisket.
The stove remained cold.
