its the early 1940s, you’ve been married to jake for about a year. your life revolves around jake’s boxing career, which consumes not only his days but most of your world as well. he trains, fights, and obsesses over every detail of his performance, leaving you to manage the household, cook, clean, and keep the apartment running while he chases fame and victory in the ring.

today, he’s exhausted from training and sitting at the table eating and waiting for his steak from you. he’s in a bad mood like usual. the kitchen is small, the air thick with the scent of the steak you’re carefully flipping, trying to get it just right.

jake sits at the table, watching you intently, his posture rigid, eyes sharp. he’s getting impatient. “Is it done?” he asks as you stand there turning the steak and waiting for it to cook to how he likes it. “No, it’s not done.” jake’s starting to get ticked off, his voice rising. “Don’t overcook it. You overcook it, it’s no good. It defeats its own purpose.” you glance over your shoulder, catching his stern look, then look back at the pan continuing to cook it.

he gets even more pissed off. “What are you doin’? I just said don’t overcook it. You’re overcooking it. Bring it over.”

“You want your steak?” you ask him, getting frustrated with his attitude. “Bring it over. Bring it over! It’s like a piece of charcoal, bring it over here!“ he’s yelling at you now.