I eat ravenously. As fast as Meshani will allow, as the tremors in my muscles mean that he must aid me with every bite lest I slop stew everywhere. Once I have taken the initial edge off my appetite, my quaking begins to subside enough that I can once more eat unaided. I liberate the bowl and spoon from him, though he maintains a light grip for the first few bites to ensure I am not being too hasty. 

When I finish my portion, he hands me his own bowl without a word.

I hesitate. “Are you not hungry?” I ask in concern.

“There is more in the kitchen,” he assures me. “For now, you need it more than I do. Did you have to work without a dinner break last night?”

“Yes,” I admit. The guilt in my voice is apparent even to my own ears.

He sighs, but I hear a fondness in the sound that blunts the sharp edge of accusation. “No wonder you were shaking. How is your migraine?”

I pause, assessing. “Improved,” I allow. It is mildly surprising. “I was expecting it to linger longer.”

“And how much sleep have you had?”

This I have to consider for longer than I should, as I count the scant few hours I have snatched between jobs. “Not enough. Two hours this morning, and perhaps an hour yesterday between repairs. The water filtration repair was a ten hour marathon. Two of my people on Team Eight dropped to exhaustion halfway through, and another three dropped at the eight hour mark. Phyllis called in Team Seven to replace personnel as needed, and one of them dropped just as we finished up. And before that, I had Two, Eleven, and Nine with me on a twelve hour overhaul of the waste treatment systems in Station Five, which came on the heels of a five hour emergency repair with Six and Twelve of the air recirculators in Station One. I had already been on duty for four hours when that broke. So it has been…” I pause to try and count, then give up when I realize that I am far too tired to do this much math. “Too long since I slept enough. I have about three hours’ worth of sleep since I went on duty the day before yesterday. Four and Ten are on day shift today,” I add absently as my mind begins to drift off. 

“Please eat more,” Meshani urges. 

I blink at him for a moment and realize there is an outline of concerned mustard wavering in his chest. “Huh,” I grunt. “The light sensitivity is beginning to resolve already. And yes, I realize you are worried for my health, my all. But please get yourself something to eat so that we can dine together. I am no longer at risk for dropping my bowl all over myself.”

I watch a tendril of violet blossom upward from the depths of his concern and curl around his heart. “Shall I bring you a third portion?” he asks as he gets to his feet. 

“Yes, that would probably be a good idea.” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble as if to emphasize the point.

Meshani gives me a chuckle, then rises to go to the kitchen. He pauses at the sideboard long enough to take up another hunk of bread and hands it to me with a kiss on my forehead. “I expect that to be gone before I return,” he tells me fondly, then makes his way out.

I do not argue. Instead, I tear into the bread with fervor. We do not get to enjoy it often, as wheat is still such a rarity. Rice flour is becoming more common with continuing progress in hydroponics and corn meal is also seeing increased use. Gram flour has long been in use, as beans have grown well, but the texture leaves much to be desired in bread. Most of our grain crops are still imported, however, and therefore difficult to acquire.

There are those who would say that Meshani and I eat like kings. We consistently have high quality ingredients in our larder that others struggle to find, let alone afford. But between our combined salaries, we can afford to splurge on our expensive tastes with plenty to spare. It is our treat to ourselves. Other than our food and clothing, we both prefer to live simply and not seek out a great deal of luxuries. We have a few books to read for entertainment. Meshani has a small wooden flute that he plays, and sometimes, I will sing with him. He also will write poetry upon occasion when the mood takes him. I enjoy the simple pleasure of playing cards.

But we do not have a personal display like most families. There are no electronic games or fancy electronic readers. Our home does not even have electricity; the kitchen appliances and water heater function on natural gas. Candles provide all of our illumination, save for a single battery operated red light globe. We have no debts or bills to pay, as all living expenses other than food are covered by my position with Internal Order. After all, why should I pay for water when the sub-city would have none without me?

All this do I reflect upon as I greedily consume the hunk of bread, and I am licking the oleo spread off my fingers as Meshani returns with two more bowls of stew. I tuck into my second bowl as he places both bowls in his hands upon the tray, then brings all of it down to the floor. He seats himself next to me, within reach if I should falter, and his bare foot slides over to rest against mine.

We eat in comfortable silence. I ravenously devour the second bowl much as I did the first, then settle down to consume the third at a more leisurely pace. Meshani eats in the same way he does most things, which is to say with obdurate patience. We finish the small loaf of bread between us, using it to soak up the thick broth left in the bottom of the bowls. 

I do not even recognize when I begin to doze off. One moment, I am feeling comfortable and full, the next I am starting upright as my chin taps into my chest. Meshani is already holding my bowl, removing it from my hands as they begin to lose grip. I blink stupidly with suddenly gritty eyes. “Tired,” I mumble before Meshani can ask.

“You are beyond tired, my heart,” he murmurs gently. “Let me put this aside and I will help you to bed.”

At least, I think that is what he says. I am nodding off again. Having a full stomach and suffering from exhaustion can do that.

I also discover in short order that his definition of helping me to bed is slightly different than mine today. He does not offer me a hand to help me stand. Instead, Meshani simply scoops me up into his arms. I want to protest, to remind him that I can walk on my own, but I am having trouble getting the thoughts to come out as words. Besides, the contentment curling around his heart is a strong dissuasion from complaint. He is enjoying this simple thing.

My jaw cracks in a massive yawn, which is also an effective dissuasion. 

So I instead lean my head against his chest without protest. He carries me bodily into the bedroom and seats me upon the edge of the bed. I pull my shirt clumsily off over my head and hand it to him, then wriggle out of my pants and smallclothes without actually standing. “Love, you need to be between the covers,” Meshani reminds me gently. I hear the teasing tone in his voice. He helps me to stand and turns down the blankets and sheet for me, then helps me to not simply flop limp onto the bed as I go to lie down. 

“I love you,” I murmur to him with sleep slurred words. And I am asleep before he can even reply.