Goat cheese

We have scraped together supper from what is left in the fridge. Small, sweet tomatoes from our own greenhouse; the last few olives in the bottom of the jar; a week old loaf of bread; and three scrag ends of cheese.

 

I pick up the goat cheese and examine it, then put it down again.

“Don’t you want it?” he asks me.

I shake my head “It’s too far gone for me.”

He picks it up and puts it on his own plate.

 

As I slice the bread I am aware that he is busy with the cheese. Out of the corner of my eye I see him cut away the rind, then scrape off the soft gooeyness I dislike so much. Moments later, small parcels of crumbling fresh cheese arrive on the edge of my plate. My eyes fill with tears.

“I love you so much” I tell him.

 

Yes, this is the reality of love. This is what matters. That we have been together so long he knows just how I like my goat cheese; and that after all these years he still cares enough to do for me what I am too tired to do for myself.

 

It is our anniversary on Monday. Keep your cards, your champagne, your flowers and jewellery; this is the moment I will treasure. This is what is real.