3. Holly, Melbourne

Idish up the last of the vegetables and carry the plates to the dining table. ‘Dinner's ready,' I shout.

‘Right,' Tom shouts back from somewhere in the house.

I grind salt and pepper over my food and let a few seconds pass before yelling again. ‘Tom! It's getting cold!'

‘Okay,' he says behind me. ‘Calm down.'

My lips press into a tight line and I release a long, tired sigh through my nose.

‘It's boiling in here, Hols.' He taps the digital panel on the wall that operates the heating.

‘It's pleasant in here and freezing outside.'

‘We don't need it on twenty-four degrees. Keep it on twenty. It's the ideal temperature for cost efficiency.'

Tom sits opposite and I glare at him, not only for telling me to calm down but for schooling me on the heating every night.

‘Here I am. Panic over,' he says.

‘There's no panic. I've made us a lovely meal, and it would be nice if you appreciated it and came when I called you.'

His lips twitch – his standard response when he thinks I'm overreacting. ‘You know I appreciate it. Smells great,' he says, zigzagging gravy over his dinner.

I wait for a thank you, but he cuts through the chicken breast and shoves a chunk in his mouth. There's a sting in my chest that he can't voice his appreciation with two simple words, but last week's argument about dinner is still fresh in my mind, so I quickly take a bite, not trusting myself to speak.

Once he swallows, he asks, ‘How was your day? Work busier?'

I nudge the carrots with my fork. ‘It's quiet, but a new project will come in soon.' My workload has steadily decreased over the past few months, and rapidly decreased in the past few weeks, but I don't want to worry Tom. He frets if I buy the expensive milk; he won't cope if he thinks my job is at risk.

‘Isn't your campus planning a revamp of the Swanston Street building? That will go to your department, won't it?'

I work for the Melbourne University of Technology as a project manager, and that revamp has been given to my department, except it's gone to the newly formed team that focuses on buildings and physical spaces. A team I'm not part of because I didn't apply for one of the new roles, despite my manager urging me to do so.

I nod and take a mouthful. ‘Mmhmm.'

Seemingly satisfied with that response, Tom scoops a mix of potato and peas into his mouth and chews while his eyes drift from his meal to me and back to his plate. I watch him, waiting for the date to register, or for him to question why we're having a roast on a Wednesday night, but his face is blank. I take another bite and give him a moment longer, but the only sounds are the clink of cutlery against crockery, the gentle hum of the ducted heating blowing through the vents and the noise of my own chewing.

I relent. ‘Anything you want to say to me?'

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, like he's just realised I'm in the room. ‘Um … this is nice?'

I stare at him, my fork carrying a bite of roast potato paused in mid-air.

He continues eating, peering at me with a creased brow.

‘You don't want to say, "Happy anniversary"?' I ask, my tone tart.

His eyes widen. He places the cutlery down and dabs his mouth with a napkin. ‘It's our anniversary?'

I nod, dropping my fork and gulping down some water, like it will diffuse my rising body temperature.

‘Shit, Holly. I'm sorry.' He reaches across the table for my hand. ‘You know I'm no good with that sort of thing. Why didn't you remind me?'

Because the date should be scorched into your memory. You should message me all day about how much you love me and come home with flowers or wine or chocolates or puppies, just fucking something.

‘I thought you might have remembered,' I say.

He adjusts his glasses and hangs his head. ‘I'm sorry. Happy anniversary.'

I retract my hand. ‘Do you even know how many years?'

He gives a short laugh. ‘Course I do. Two…' His eyes dart around the kitchen as he searches that part of his brain I call his relationship black hole. It's where everything about us being together falls, never to be seen again. ‘Yeah, two … incredible years.'

My jaw tightens. ‘Three. We've been together three years, Tom.'

He scrunches his face, the lines around his eyes deepening. ‘You sure? Feels like we just met. Well, it's been a great three years, hasn't it?'

I frown.

He reaches for my hand again, but I pull it back. ‘I really am sorry. I'm terrible with dates, but you know how much I love you.'

I do know that. And he has been stupidly busy at work lately, so he's more forgetful than usual.

‘You want me to make it up to you?' he continues. ‘Maybe … an early night?' He winks, or tries to wink, but he's one of those people whose eyelids lack the coordination and it presents as a blink.

I inwardly groan. A ten-minute poke that leaves me frustrated and him satisfied is not how I want to be appreciated tonight. I pat his hand and give a conciliatory smile. ‘How about you buy me some nice chocolates from that place near your office tomorrow, hey?'

He grins and mops up the last of his dinner. ‘I can do that. Just send me a text to remind me before I leave work.'

I huff and shake my head, but it's lost on him because his head is tipped back, draining his glass of water.

He places the glass on the table. ‘So, Jack's back tomorrow,' he says, nerves coating his words.

Jack is Tom's son, who's started living with us every second week since Tom's ex-wife decided that he needed to parent more. Prior to the new arrangement, I'd met Jack a total of five times and struggled to get a hello from him.

I carry my plate to the sink. ‘How do you feel about that?'

Tom follows and puts his dish on the side. ‘Looking forward to seeing him, but a bit worried how it will go. Glad you're with me for this. Don't think I'm very good at handling an eight-year-old.'

‘I'm not either,' I say, rinsing the dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. ‘Jack is definitely not a fan of mine.'

‘Not at all. He's a kid. He likes you.'

‘He's going to need to like me a whole lot more if this living arrangement continues.'

‘He'll come round.' Tom gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Thanks for dinner. It was lovely. And happy anniversary.' He pecks my cheek and points towards the lounge room. ‘Do you mind if I watch The 7.30 Report? The treasurer's on tonight talking about the national debt. I don't want to miss it.'

I glance at the pile of dishes and the leftover food scattered across the bench.

‘Leave all that,' he says. ‘I'll tidy it up later.'

‘It's easier to do it now and I was going to…' But he's already walking away. ‘Go for a shower,' I murmur to his retreating back. My hand tightens around the dirty cutlery. That thread of patience holding me together is about to break. I go to call him back but decide against it because he'll stack the dishwasher wrong and won't pack the leftovers properly. And to be fair to him, he started work at seven, whereas I didn't go in until ten, left at four and had a two-hour lunch break.

Once the kitchen is clean, I head down the hallway, the soles of my slippers scuffing the floorboards, and retreat to the bathroom. I switch on the ceiling heat lamp and run the hot water, then peel off my dress, thick tights and underwear and pile my hair on top of my head. When steam starts to fill the shower recess, I step in and tip my head forward, letting the warm flow massage my neck and shoulders.

The non-event that was our anniversary sits sour under my skin. But I'm not sure what I expected – for Tom to suddenly be this person he isn't and never will be? It's not his fault he's forgetful, and partners always take each other for granted now and then.

I run the soap over my thighs.

Maybe I was too hasty turning down that early night. I was hoping for more than dinner tonight, and the sex isn't awful, not at all. It doesn't blow my brain apart, but I'm not always left frustrated either. Besides, who's having brain-blowing sex when they've been together for years? At least he tries to give me an orgasm.

I grab the scrubbing brush and vigorously wash my back.

Maybe he'd make more of an effort tonight – I could even get some oral. The reality of that thought registers. Unlikely. Unless I ask, and there is no way I'll ask. He knows I like it so he should just do it. But he's not really a going-down type of guy. I guessed that the moment I met him, with his glasses, smart-casual clothing, clean-shaven skin and practical haircut. Not that how he looked was the sole reason. It was that combined with something missing in his hazel eyes. They were kind and loving, but they lacked fire, passion, a desire to devour me.

‘Get over it, Holly,' I mutter and turn off the taps. I can't choose a life partner based on their ability or willingness to devour me. I step onto the soft bathmat and dry myself under the warmth of the heat lamp, then slather my skin with an almond milk body butter. I swipe my hand through the mirror steam, let down my hair to run a brush through it and wrap the towel around me.

When I walk into the lounge, Tom's gaze shifts from the TV. ‘Better?'

‘Mmhmm.' I hold out my hand. ‘Maybe I'll take you up on that early night.'

He grins and clicks the remote. ‘Rightio, then. I'll just put that on pause for ten.'