a story: part two.
the way it settled on her favorite things.
the way it clung to porcelain - as if it knew its time was short.
the way it danced in the streaming sunday morning sunlight. laughing at the usually spic-and-span space. "ha, ha. ha, ha."
for two whole days, he'd been keeping it together. washing the dishes and straining to see the horizon from the tiny window above the sink.
three times a day, he'd dry his hands on her bright yellow dishtowel, clenching it with a fist that just wanted to be open and on her shoulders.
sometimes, he'd even take the dishtowel to bed to help him remember that her hands always smelled like lemon and lavender.
but it was hard for him to think of anything other than the fact that the bed seemed too big without her in it.
so he sipped tea and wondered if she was sleeping on her side or flat on her back. and if she had the covers tucked tightly around her chin.
he hoped she knew he'd saved her half of the biggest and juiciest tomato of the season. a bright red orb of blush seeds and pulp - begging only for a sprinkle of salt and an appreciative palate.