The many selves we carry
By Sarina Bosco
The man in the dining room is a distraction.
He is good at setting the table and dicing onions. He’s good at picking the best tomatoes out of the garden, by smell I think, since I watch him from the window lifting them to his upper lip. He also pulls some green ones, which I will bread and fry.
I forget about everything that has happened when I’m washing the dishes and the water rushes toward the drain. There is so much copper in it that the grate has turned a beautiful blue and the edges rust. I wash the same plate for almost two minutes. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me, but they sit uncomfortably under my breasts and not at my waist where they should be. He has to work at his posture to fit here. It is not like the water circling the drain or my hand repetitious over the ceramic or the skin of the tomatoes exactly ripe enough. He will not come here again.
I know that I am for another.