Breakfast next to a steady fire
A milk bottle with saffron juice, wrung from a sack of oranges
Toasted walnut bread, broken
I read the society page aloud to him
The restaurant was “celestially expensive,” she said
I hung on the image of the party taken from a balcony above
The log cracked and burst against the chain links
The water in the kitchen was left running from the tap to keep from freezing
I sat at the table barefoot
We are easy around each other in his home
For me it is a long weekend in the country with a new friend
For him it is a distraction to cook for a guest
The house holds decades of stories within it’s walls
He doesn’t open the books that hold them
Even in our silence, I am at the table, I am fully here
I move to the couch as he clears the plates
I read 30 pages, nap and read 30 more
It is a hardcover book, but light, the paper feels good on my fingers
At 4:00 we watch a movie
He makes popcorn on the fire, I make manhattans using measuring spoons
We both cover our eyes when there is bloodshed and laugh
He booked a reservation at 8. I showered and put lipstick on.
It is Valentine’s Day, but we are not lovers
It is not happy, but it is not sad
This article appears in April 2016.
