She’s a picky eater. I love her to the moon and back, but the biggest tragedy is her palate. It doesn’t help that the pregnancy has only enhanced that- she can barely stand to be in the apartment with me sometimes. Not to mention waking me up in the middle of the night to run to the nearest store for a craving. And she has the morning sickness rough, it’s not like I can say no. She didn’t grow up as well as I did, with the culture I did. She’s Southside, born and bred; didn’t have much money. But back to the tragedy that is her tastebuds. Her favourite food is chicken tenders and fries. I think the chef in me died when she first told me that. She tried to like my food at first, but it’s just not for her. That’s okay. There are somethings she enjoys, like seafood boils or ribs. They were her mother’s staples growing up- that and collard greens.

She wakes up after I do. I prepare breakfast, and I bring it to her in bed. I make her an omelette consisting of lactose-free cheese, onions, chicken leftover from yesterday’s dinner, and some seasoning. Next I move onto the coffee, which consists of espresso and vanilla-flavoured almond creamer. She’s lactose intolerant, and can’t handle milk or rich foods. It’s tough to work around, but I like a challenge in the kitchen. Or the bedroom, actually. It was a challenge to learn how to pleasure her. Unfortunately, I don’t think that went both ways, because she very quickly knew how to make me feel good. I place the coffee and the omelette onto the breakfast tray, as well as a small bowl of diced mango dusted with tajin, one of the baby’s more tame cravings.

When I enter our bedroom, I set the tray next to her and gently rouse her with kisses. She giggles, kissing me back as she sits up. I make her comfortable, then I present my creation. She begins to dig in, and I relish in the satisfied groan that means she’s enjoying my food. She finishes the omelette quickly, praising me and my skills between bites. I smile. There’s no one I love the way I love her. She’s a goddess in human flesh, and I can only hope to show her how much I love her. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life expressing it, I will never tire of the little smile she gets and the sweet return of my words when I tell her I love her. No, I don’t just tell her, I confess it, like it’s the first time all over again. I’m snapped out of my daze when she moves on to the mangos and offers me a cube, holding it out. I accept, and she seems happy to place the fruit and tajin in my mouth with her fingers, happy that I tried her pregnancy craving. “What do you think?” she asks, tilting her head as she takes the bowl back.