Shell Game

Over his shoulder, I eyed a bit of vein my husband missed on one of the two dozen shrimp he had cleaned and readied for the shrimp boil tonight. I wanted to reach around him and flick the vein into the kitchen drain but I didn’t. I didn’t say a word.I should work on not being so disapproving, I said to myself.

“Is there some reason you’re standing there?” he said, intently working on the next shrimp.

“I just need to fill my water jug.” It wasn’t a lie. It was why I’d come in from the porch where I’d been planting geraniums and it was all I meant to do until I saw the vein.

By now, he knew I’d seen the vein and I could tell he started to enjoy its being there to dare me to intervene. Would I be able to walk away? Or would I feel compelled to show him the shred of vein clinging to the shrimp just to the left of the shrimp at the top.

He started work on the next shrimp, never looking up but smiling to himself. I could feel it, the slight whiff of entrapment, the setting of the trap, the careful baiting of the hook. He was waiting for me to be myself. But I fooled him and left to water my geraniums.

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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash