That morning Ruža took the first slice of pie, the one with the most plums. Milan had already reached toward it and stopped, surprised as though the plate had escaped by itself. He always left her the edges because she said she liked them. Ruža sat, broke off a bite, and realized she was hungry for precisely that soft middle portion. She offered no exchange, although she felt the familiar urge.
Two days earlier, a friend had asked what she wanted to do for her birthday. Ruža replied that she did not mind, which was what she had said most often throughout thirty years of marriage. Her friend said they would then spend the entire day visiting her uncle, who raised ornamental chickens. Ruža objected so quickly that both burst out laughing. Apparently there were things she wanted less than others after all.
Milan first noticed the difference at breakfast. Then he heard that she disliked the orange marmalade he had bought her ever since their wedding. He ate his own spread in offended silence. He had thought he knew her better than anyone. Ruža knew it was unfair to be angry with him for answers she had never given. Nevertheless, she was tired of her own politeness returning to her in jars.
For her birthday, she asked to spend the morning in town without a family lunch. Milan called her sister to explain the change, then made the mistake of saying Ruža was a little strange this year. She heard him from the hallway. She took the phone and told her sister she wanted to walk, buy a book, and eat something she had not cooked herself. Her sister replied that it sounded excellent.
During the outing Milan asked too many questions. Did she want left or right, coffee or tea, sitting or walking? Finally Ruža laughed and said he was not taking an exam. He could suggest something as well. He took her to a small secondhand record shop he had avoided for years because he thought she would be bored. They spent an hour there.
Toward evening they brought home a book, two records, and an uneaten half of a cake. Ruža played the record she had chosen herself, while Milan left the one she could not stand for tomorrow. The pie waited on the table. He asked whether she wanted the middle or an edge. "The middle," she said. He looked at the final generous slice and suggested sharing it. She could negotiate about that.