Spilled Milk

He will not always be beside me, I know. I'm just a kind of snack for him, some little sweetener in the life when needed, some fancy silver lining. But I fully accept. It's better than a left main-course. It's better than I, standing in the middle of the kitchen, shivering with a knife still in my hand. It's my house, our house, yet it can collapse in any snap moment, when the phone rings, everything will be taken away from me. Oh dear life, a kind of forgivable humor comes over me, I smile with my teeth grinding.

You rush out from the kitchen; I can see you strive to make it slow. How nice of you. Oh of course you asked me, of course you do. And of course I agreed. You put me on the table, I chop myself off. Fair enough.

Egg yolk sits in the bowl beautifully, several of them. The shell you broke lay besides the bowl, the white all hanging out. I take the chopstick you put down just several minutes ago. The yolk still like wax polish. Perfectly undisturbed.

What a good man you are.

When you come back, the dinner will be ready. I will be there. Lying. the white, all hanging out, unsoundly. Untouched.