Private Rites

by Julia Armfield

They check their phone again briefly, note a message from Irene. I’m going to try to cook again tonight—a woman should cook, so I’m hearing. Yesterday evening, Irene tried to make a casserole and instead ended up burning the bottom out of a saucepan and setting off the smoke alarm. Prior to this disaster, Jude had leaned up against the kitchen counter to watch her: orange light from the overheads ringing her head like a corona and the way she clattered pots and pans, doing everything all wrong. It is easy, Jude has always reflected, to love a difficult woman. Easy to become the solid place around which she gathers herself, all her insecurities and rages and vendettas, the mooring from which she hangs. Irene is a fucking nightmare, and lovable for it. Lovable because she asks consistently to be loved, a desire that streams from her spiteful, sparkling face, from the way she kisses, from the way she’ll sometimes jerk awake at night and stare around in panic. She expresses a constant desire to be better—tries hopelessly to cook, tries to let go of grudges—yet Jude loves the specific truth of what she is prior to trying as much as the fact that she always tries again. But just assuming my efforts are not successful, Irene texts as follow-up, I’ll also buy a microwave dinner. Just covering all bases. I love you, she adds, I just think you’re really fucking neat.