Derek cooked. This was established early on, mostly because Shirly's idea of cooking involved a toaster and a sense of optimism. He didn't mind. He actually enjoyed it, the structure, the predictability, the way a recipe was essentially an algorithm that produced edible results if you followed the steps correctly.
Shirly appreciated this. She really did. She told him so regularly, usually while sitting at the kitchen island watching him chop onions with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. She'd say, 'This is lovely,' and he'd say, 'It's just pasta,' and she'd say, 'No, I mean it, I really appreciate you doing this.' And he'd feel warm about it for approximately three days, until the next time she said it, and he'd start to wonder if 'I appreciate you' was just shorthand for 'I'm glad I don't have to.'
The cooking complaint didn't arrive all at once. It crept in. A comment about the sauce being a bit rich. A suggestion that they try more vegetables. A casual 'maybe we should alternate cooking nights?' that landed like a grenade in the middle of Derek's Tuesday risotto.
He didn't say anything. He just started cooking simpler meals. Less effort. Fewer ingredients. If she wanted to alternate, fine. He'd give her something to alternate with. It was petty, and he knew it, and he did it anyway.
What neither of them said out loud was this: Derek's cooking was his way of showing love, and Shirly's suggestions felt like criticism of that love. And Shirly's suggestions were her way of trying to share the load, and Derek's silence felt like refusal to let her in. They were both right. They were both wrong. And the kitchen, which should have been where they fed each other, became where they kept score.