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The Kitchen Sink

It was a Sunday morning, the day that the levee failed. Five years of fog harvesting and I felt like a hacker in a velvet wasteland. Art and politics are a dangerous mix. Loneliness and unqualified praise, a happy suicide. You asked me to pass the salt, and when you reached out to take it, I noticed your hands for the first time in a long time. I'd always liked the way your hands felt on me in the dark, the way they stole from me, the way they bled me. You salted your runny eggs and then said, without looking at me, that I could be good without being perfect. You said you liked a little mess. Lord knows I've made my mistakes. I don't even want to talk about the sport leathers or the time the belt buckle damn near ripped your ear off. But now the screams and grunts of ecstasy sound hollow, and the wide white smiles of happy acknowledgement are nothing more than a smooth veneer, constantly in need of polishing. I've become a caretaker in New York City where everyone dines out. You were dining out: a little Chinese on Wednesdays, Hungarian goulash on Tuesdays, and Pizza night with "the guys" on Friday and Saturday nights. When you left after breakfast that day, you left everything, even your toothbrush, which I had always used to scrub the toilet on Sunday afternoons.

Story by:

Cheryl Anne Gardner

submitted at 2:23pm

23 June 2011

Cheryl Anne Gardner's web:

www.google.com/profiles/cheryl.anne.gardner