His littlest daughter is there by the sink, rinsing some fruit for a strawberry drink.
She pulls from the drawer a knife meant for butter, “You must chop them up, or the blender
will sputter!” With every clean cut, she beams with a smile, as leafy green wigs fall into a pile.
He’s at the table with flak in his stare, swallowing supper he didn’t prepare. “You’re doing it
wrong. That’s too much to waste.” He picks through her clippings and gives them a taste.
She places the knife on the counter in silence, ashamed of her instinct to strike in
defiance. Something is different, though neither can tell, a shot that is cheap,
is one that will swell. The next time she thinks of the things she can do,
she’ll see the strawberries from his point of view. Now when she’s
working, she’ll hide what she’s made, “Wait till he’s gone, or
else feel betrayed.” Just like a clay that hardens with
life, she’ll stay in that shape, as somebody’s
wife. Her blush says to him “you’ve
gotten your prey,” but she’ll
turn away, and turned
she will
stay.
–
Holly Tubbs is a library master’s student from Louisiana.
