Porterhouse Steak

The one thing I have not been able to talk about is how we ate dinner the night she told me it was over. After we’d gone through the worst of it, somehow she managed to cook us porterhouse steak. The meat was perfect – charred on the outside, a ribbon of pink through the middle – but though we ate bravely, neither of us could finish what was on our plate. Even now I can still see it sitting there under the sharp kitchen lights: that which was closest to the bone; that which had been bred, born, slain, dressed, burned and cut into pieces, only to go to waste.