The cold never bothered me anyway - Short Novel
- Yehuda & Maya Devir
- 3 days ago
- 10 min read
Let me explain something about being married.
A married man does not simply walk into the kitchen and eat.
No. Everything is a mission.
The moment you touch food, suddenly orders are thrown at you ...
“Put it on a plate.”
“Heat it up.”
“Use a fork.”
“Sit at the table.”
“Don’t stand inside the refrigerator.”
Why?!
What did I ask for? A dining experience?
No! I just wanted to put a little something in my mouth and continue with my life.
That’s it.
I don’t need a plate. The food is already sitting inside something. That something is called a pot. The pot has been approved for food storage by society. Why are we now transferring the food from one perfectly good object into another object?
That’s unnecessary paperwork.
Then you want me to heat it?
Now I have to take the pot out, open a drawer, find a plate, move food onto the plate, open the microwave, press buttons, wait, take the plate out, discover the middle is still cold, put it back, wait again, and somehow - somehow - I am now responsible for washing everything.
The plate.
The fork.
The microwave cover.
The counter.
The pot.
I came in for one bite of pasta, and suddenly I’m running a restaurant during the dinner rush.
No, thank you.
That is why Yehuda had developed a system.
A secret system...
A system used by married men all over the world.
You open the refrigerator quietly, bend forward, locate the pot, and eat directly from it while your entire upper body remains hidden behind the refrigerator door.
You don’t remove the pot.
That is critical.
The pot stays inside the refrigerator.
You lean in.
You take one bite.
Then another bite.
Then one more bite because the second bite created questions.
And the whole time, you listen for footsteps.
Because Maya was never angry about it.
That would have been easier.
Anger comes with noise. You hear anger approaching. Anger gives you time to swallow, close the pot, and pretend you were checking the expiration date on the milk.
Maya had something much more powerful.
The Look.
Not an angry look.
A gentle, supportive, deeply disappointed look.
The kind of look you give a four-year-old who proudly announces that he washed the cat in the toilet.
She would stand there with a tiny smile and say:
“Oh… you’re eating from the pot again.”
Not judgmental.
Encouraging.
Almost proud that he had managed to feed himself without adult supervision.
“Good job, honey. Next time maybe we’ll try a plate.”
That hurts more than yelling.
Don’t talk to me like I just learned how spoons work.
So that night, Yehuda moved through the kitchen like a professional burglar.
No lights.
No unnecessary breathing.
He opened the refrigerator two centimeters at a time so the suction wouldn’t make that little popping sound.
Pop.
He froze.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No Maya.
Clear.
He opened the door fully and immediately spotted the pot.
Pasta from yesterday.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Ready.
The pot was sitting on the middle shelf like it had been expecting him.
Yehuda grabbed a fork and leaned into the refrigerator until only his back and butt were visible from the kitchen.
To an outside observer, it looked like the refrigerator had begun eating a grown man.
He lifted the lid carefully.
The pasta was freezing cold.
Not “a little chilly.”
This pasta had emotionally moved on from being dinner.
It was now a refrigerated building material.
Yehuda twisted a forkful, lifted it to his mouth, and took a bite.
His teeth immediately filed a formal complaint.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes watered.
His body whispered, We could have heated this.
But his pride answered, We are too far in.
He took another bite.
Then, from somewhere behind him, Maya’s voice floated through the kitchen.
Soft.
Low.
Slow.
“Wouldn’t you rather eat me instead?”
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