Adam and Eve

Chapter 1 - Bread and Silence

The kitchen clock ticked in slow, uneven beats, the kind that made you notice the space between each second. It was just past eight in the morning, though the pale winter light filtering through the curtains made it feel earlier. Outside, the world was still—the street quiet, the trees bare—but inside, the air was warm with the scent of cinnamon and toasted bread.



Adam sat at the small oak table, his shoulders slightly hunched, cradling a mug of coffee that had cooled while he wasn’t looking. The steam had thinned to wisps, curling upward and fading as quickly as they formed. He hadn’t taken a sip in several minutes. His eyes were fixed on the dark surface as if there might be some answer hidden there if he stared long enough.



The sound of Eve moving around the kitchen was soft, but he felt it more than he heard it. Her bare feet whispered against the tile, a quiet rhythm as she moved between the counter and the toaster. She was wearing her blue robe—the one he had wrapped for her in crisp white paper their first Christmas as a married couple. Back then, the belt had cinched loosely at her waist, the hem brushing her calves. Now, the fabric sat differently, tugging gently across her hips, the knot tied a little higher.



Adam noticed it without meaning to. He didn’t think of it with judgment—only with a kind of aching familiarity, like recognizing a song you once loved but hadn’t heard in years.



The toaster popped softly, and the smell of cinnamon and browned bread deepened, threading through the air. Eve didn’t glance at him as she buttered the slice. Her movements were deliberate—neither rushed nor slow—each stroke of the knife even, as if she were spreading something more important than butter.



There had been a time when they didn’t just eat in this kitchen—they lived here. The counters had been crowded with mixing bowls, the air heavy with the scent of baking bread or a roast pulled from the oven. Saturday mornings had stretched into afternoons as they cooked together—Eve stirring a sauce while Adam chopped vegetables, his free hand wandering over to hers, feeding her a taste from his fingertips.



It had been their language, that abundance.



But it had been chipped away over the years, eroded by other voices. Adam’s mother, her tone sweet but sharp at the edges, had once told Eve, “It’s good you’re keeping your figure. A woman should look after herself.” She’d said it as Eve set a pie on the table, her smile faltering only for a second before recovering.



Eve’s father, in the way only he could, had told Adam one summer, “You’re looking more like a man these days—leaner, stronger. Keep it up.” Adam had nodded, but his glance had caught Eve’s across the yard—something unspoken passing between them in that look.



After that, things had shifted. The butter dish sat untouched for days. The grocery cart filled with greens and skinless chicken breasts. Recipes became shorter, simpler. Meals became smaller. They’d congratulated each other for resisting second helpings, though neither of them had felt proud.



The hunger had been more than physical.



Eve took a bite of her toast now, closing her eyes just briefly before swallowing. Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, she looked younger—like the woman who used to lean against the counter in a flour-dusted apron, holding a spoon of chocolate ganache to his lips.



Adam felt the memory wash over him, vivid enough that he almost tasted it. The warmth of her leaning into him, the way her laughter had made the room feel fuller, the quiet intimacy of shared indulgence.



Her eyes opened and found his.



It was only for a second, but in that second, the years of careful distance thinned, just a little. There was something there—mutual recognition, a faint spark of the joy they’d once had.



Then she looked away, setting her plate in the sink, and the spell broke. Adam took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter.



They had been married for eleven years. The love was still there—steady, certain—but it had been trimmed down and portioned out, just like their meals, measured into something smaller than it once was. Adam wondered, not for the first time, how to bring it back.