While reaching for the sponge, the remains of last night caked on the patiently waiting dishes, evidence of our obligatory evening with Rose and David who arrived with smiles drawn on.
Small talk was served with a knowing disregard for the doomed union of our guests. We’d tasted their narrative before which now lay before me parched and lifeless on their salad plates, the farmer’s care no help to them as the conversation skirted their heartbreak with talks of some HBO show with what’s-his-name and that new restaurant on 6th street, Casa something…
And then the lull, awkward, silent, an interval that could’ve revealed pain but instead became a welcome morsel of peace.
I sneak a look at you, your focus on the chicken swimming in tomatoes and garlic, your favorite, my focus your hair, just washed and blown dry by that baroque piece of industrial ingenuity you bought on Amazon.
Then you look up at me A curl falls just so, brushing against your cheek as if for maximum effect and your smile free from the goings on, perhaps born from the notion that sometimes life is good for no reason at all.
The water turns hot burning the shit out of that paper cut I got this morning and I drop the sponge into last night wondering why you never mentioned we don’t have any dish soap left.