Friday April 29, 2016
From an e-mail
We found ourselves in the middle of your kitchen floor. A key in the lock. Shit. Shit. I sneak into the pantry cupboard with flour and chickpeas and tortilla chips. I can’t believe I fit. I don’t understand. I hear his voice and yours, higher than usual. I wonder if he can smell the stress? The pasta?
He goes upstairs, heavy feet. You whisper to me, “it’s safe now,” and I almost say, “nevermind,” and stay in the kitchen and let it all blow up.
I don’t. I go. I walk the three doors down, from your house to mine. My wife kisses me. “What did you have for lunch?” she asks.