April 3, 2008
solitary bees, 19
He carries soup up the stairs, the bowl and silverware clinking on the tray: salt and pepper shakers, a linen napkin, folded, slices of bread in a fan beside it.
The light is on in her room. She sits up in bed, her legs beneath the blanket, her hands pressed flat against it.
Her face brightens as he enters the room.
There’s a secret ingredient. I’ll see if you can guess it.
He stands, looking down at her.
Where would you like this?
You can just set it on the bed for a minute. I was thinking of something.
He sets the tray on the night stand.
I noticed when I woke from my nap my ankle was untied.
I thought you might.
What you’ve done to me is pretty unforgivable. I think if I left at this point, I might not ever get over it.
That makes sense to me.
It shouldn’t.
She sips at the soup in her spoon.
Is there sassafras in it?
Yeah. It’s a thickening agent. How’d you know?
My father did the same thing.
She slurps the remainder from the spoon.
You know what I want to do sometime?
Nope.
I want to take a bath.
She puts the spoon back.
Alone.
I’m not sneaking a peek.
That’s not my point.
Your soup’s getting cold.
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