I’m in the kitchen washing dishes when you wake from your nap. I hear you close the bathroom door and when you come out there’s still pillow creases on your cheek. You don’t say anything. This is merely an interlude between naps, says the expression on your face. I shouldn’t bother with conversation. You come into the kitchen to get a ginger ale from the refrigerator, press the bottle against your temple. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Let me make you something to eat.” I’m washing the big frying pan, soapy hands, burnt cheese stuck to the edges. I arch my hips to the side so you can throw away the bottle cap in the garbage under the sink.
Coming soon from Buckman Journal.