No Hummus

Husband hates hummus. I twist open the Lao Gan Ma, curse when oil coats my fingers. Husband paints sliced pita red. I sign us up for ballet lessons, realize I forgot my credit card between Husband’s heart and lungs. A Toast receipt sits in my inbox, SMTP protocols suspending transactions in ice—a bowl of hummus, pita two white two wheat, extra paprika for the daring, 10% living wage. Tasteless and heavy, worse than swallowing a lead ball, Husband says. I gather skin like dust, a sticky pile. Exfoliating should be a hard stop, I know, but scratching feels good, more so when things flake off. Intentional loss doesn’t feel like loss. Husband brandishes his Amex Platinum, clanks it onto the corner. Just use my card, order hotpot next time. The luxury of the shared bank account distills us down to the same person. And you’ll stretch before class, I need to confirm. Husband might be the only husband in ballet class, better that than a couch potato who complains about back pain. And you’ll order Haidilao, Husband counter-confirms. I dip a knife in the bowl, carve a swirl through the shallow pool of olive oil, trail tahini over shreds of basil. I put the knife in my mouth, lick each side clean, careful not to nick my tongue on the edge. My money is your money, I shrug, wondering if a butter knife is sharp enough to slide my Visa card through a cage of ribs.