Sunday, September 02, 2007


She thought intensely on it now,
on that other fellow,
on this one,
how she had betrayed him,
so completely,
such utter lack of remorse.

No splash of shame
from exposed, sweaty pores,
breading his halibut
as though,
stain of ruby wine kisses
had not tainted her.

Imagining – proudly
daydreaming even,
that cold slender insertion of metal
twisting inside the lock.
“Honey, I’m home…”
…only to discover her note,
next to another perfect meal
by the phone.
a ‘please don’t call me
– ever again’
scribbled in frenetic excitement.

Note pad sticky, egg batter
faint tang of lemon rind -
garnishing little more
than she might do,
sun shedding its grace
too obvious -
across flour-dust counter top.

No plans for intrusion…
…but it comes.
thick gooey ooze
curdled mixture
frying battered fillets,
perfection – in a skillet at least -
both reminder
and farewell.

Arranged so neatly
bitter hint of parsley
beaded glass, homemade tea
one cloth napkin pressed into service,
everything else purged into the washer
- almost.
Nothing left to consider –
small comfort of clean up.
She smiles,
pitching apron and mitts
remnant domesticity aside
trading Limoge for lip rouge
‘Boy’, she reasons,
emptied handbag slung over strutted shoulder,
‘When I cook I sizzle,
But when I lie, I really bake!’
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).


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