Saturday July 11, 2015
Overheard at Higher Grounds
His name is Luke. I bake him a blackberry rhubarb pie. I make the crust with cold butter. I cut it in with two knives. James Taylor plays on the stereo. The sun is high. The lake calls like a crow but I don’t listen. I grate in lemon zest and I mix the filling with my hands, staining them purple, staining them lovely.
His name is Luke. It’s his special day. Not a birthday, quite. Not a promotion, really.
When the pie’s out of the oven and the iced tea is brewed, I light candles. Luke is taking a shower.
Before we clink forks and take a bite, Luke says, “Thank you for this celebration. It’s just what I’ve needed.” We eat, quiet except for “ooh’s and ahh’s”. Betsy stops by with the pills he’s supposed to take before he goes to sleep. I cut her a slice. I watch her eyes close as she chews.