Last Sunday

The first taste was cinnamon. The second something more sour. Strange.

In the corner, he saw cluttered clothing piles, tossed aside in moments of passion or pure laziness. Imagining both, he looked at the plate in front of him, then across at her. So many voices and images, all telling him different things. Run. Stay. Love her. Leave, now. He swallowed the emotions, savoring each one, like they were baked into the food she had prepared.

The third taste was salty.

“It’s all in how you prepare the cabbage. Boil it too long and it is useless. My mother taught me how, though I always add a bit more spice than she did, I loved her cooking.” She was slender, always slender, wearing his favorite white denim pants, baby blue blouse that made her eyes look sea blue, her skin pale like the moon after a storm. “She would fold the edged just so, securing the filling so none would escape. I can still see her fingers, olive oil slippery.” She stood and looked out the window. “Let’s go to the park, walk around, sit on a bench.”

He followed the curve of her spine.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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