Choking Down the Burrito

That night when we put the kid to bed,
You microwaved a burrito for yourself,
And you put it on a paper plate.
I was disgusted that you had only put one burrito in the microwave,
So I popped another into the little white space machine
That my mother bought us
That sits on top of the refrigerator,
And I turned the dial to two minutes,
Long enough to heat the plastic bag
POP!
To tell me that all the ice had melted.

So I took the burrito from the microwave
And placed it next to yours on the paper plate
That you had taken from the cabinet
And set it beside your burrito,
All lathered in sour cream,
Covered in black bean salsa,
And garnished with crumbled tortilla chips,

And I said to you,
"I'm invading your personal space.
"Do you mind?"

And you said,
"No."

Then we asked each other how this was all going to work out,
With your problems and mine keeping each other company.
And I think, maybe, I asked too much of you.

I spoke of your problems while you ate,
Watching you eat,
Bite by bite,
Every last bit of sour cream,
Tomato-covered bell peppers,
Tortilla shell,
Refried bean,
And shredded beef,
While you listened to me speak
Of our tragic love,
Fateful and majestic,
Like Romeo and Juliet,
Othello and Desdemona,
Adam and Eve,
Harry and Sally,
Ozzie and Harriet,
Bonnie and Clyde,
Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote,
Fire and Powder,
Heaven and Hell.

And when I was finished speaking,
I looked at your burrito,
Which was nearly eaten, entirely,
And then I looked at my burrito,
Which was still untouched by my fork,
And I thought that maybe I was the problem.

So,

I put my fork to that fucking burrito,
And ate every last bite.