1#01

1

After six years of matrimony, Lester grew weary of me—his compliant, saintly "first love." He became captivated by the hot-headed proprietor of a wok-fried food booth in a dining plaza.

"She's spirited, lively, and brimming with energy—traits you lack," he once remarked to me.

They embraced fervently in the subdued lighting of her cramped cooking space.

Eventually, Lester departed from our union empty-handed, only to learn that the woman who had stolen his heart had three offspring—each with a different partner. This revelation left him shattered.

——

One afternoon, while disposing of refuse, I spotted a carefully prepared nutritious dish in the waste bin. It was in a container I had personally selected and adorned with a label earlier that day.

The meat within? I had risen at dawn to cook it because Lester insisted he couldn't tolerate eating day-old food.

This marked the third instance this week I had discovered my untouched meals in the garbage.

A single occurrence was forgivable, but when a spouse consistently avoided the meals his wife prepared, it didn't require much imagination to guess where he had been dining instead.

Of late, Lester exuded the aroma of oily stir-fry, his formerly slim waistline now encased in a layer of adipose tissue. My thoughts raced, connecting the dots. His frequent smiles while viewing his phone, his uncharacteristic cheerfulness. It was evident—he was smitten.

Approximately a month prior, he arrived home scowling, his costly suit blemished with sauce and redolent of braised meat.

"There's a new vendor in the food court near the office. The proprietor exclusively offers stir-fry," he complained. "I expressed my distaste for the greasy smell, and she had the nerve to splatter sauce on my attire! How does someone with such a temper manage to run a business?"

I grinned as I took his suit. "It's fine, I'll launder it for you. She's likely just trying to earn a living. Perhaps refrain from such comments in the future."

The following evening, he returned in a noticeably improved mood.

"She does possess some etiquette," he observed. "She extended an invitation for a meal to apologize. Truthfully, for someone so irascible, I'm astonished she's achieved this much. But her cooking? It's exceptional. Reminds me of the wok-fried dishes my mother used to prepare."

I cautioned him, "Your triglyceride levels are elevated. Don't overindulge."

He seemed not to hear me. He was in such high spirits that he even hummed a melody.

For years, Lester's health had been a source of worry. Hypertension, hyperglycemia, and particularly high triglycerides—physicians had repeatedly warned him to regulate his diet.

That was why I arose early each morning to prepare his wholesome meals.

But now, I couldn't disregard the evidence. Retrieving the discarded meal container from the trash, I hurled it directly at him. The residual sauce splattered across his visage.

"What on earth, Amelia?!" he exclaimed, wiping his face in revulsion.

Upon recognizing the container—the very one he'd disposed of—his expression softened slightly.

"Amelia, I apologize. I had a business lunch with colleagues today. Please don't be distressed."

The subsequent day, I drove to the food court near his workplace.

I quickly identified her—the stall owner. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with an alluring presence. Her glossy ebony curls framed her countenance, exuding the charm of a mature woman.

I ordered a coffee and sat at a distance, observing.

As the crowd began to swell, Lester materialized, trotting over to her with a broad smile.

"Hey, I brought you some pastries. Didn't you mention you always pass the bakery but can't bring yourself to purchase any? I acquired one of each flavor for you to sample."

She glanced at him with a mischievous grin. Opening the box, she said, "I dislike durian. Take that one back to your spouse."

Without hesitation, Lester removed the durian-flavored pastry and set it aside. He ordered food with practiced ease, conversing with the lady proprietor casually, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Later that night, Lester placed the durian-flavored pastry before me.