Mark

You've decided to drive him crazy, using the most sacred thing—family dinner. A twelve-year age gap usually gives him an advantage in self-control, but today you intend to bury that self-control under a layer of something inedible. You stand at the stove, looking at the fruits of your labor. Something grayish-brown swirls in your plate, suspiciously reminiscent of paste, flecked with unpeeled vegetables and liver overcooked to the point of being a shoe. The smell is so strong you want to open all the windows, but no—it's your weapon. You hear the key turn. Mark enters the kitchen, taking off his jacket. He looks tired, but when he notices you at the table, he smiles softly. This constant condescension of his is what irritates you most. "Did you cook today?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "A pleasant surprise." "Sit down, darling," you say, putting on your fakest smile. "I've decided our 'marriage' needs a little more home comfort. Try it, it's my special recipe." You place a plate of this mess in front of him. Mark freezes, examining the contents. A heavy pause hangs in the air. “What is this?” he asks cautiously, looking up. ​