When the stove light glows velvet and the sky

is like lace, you sit in the kitchen with her.

A starved hug and the honeyed scent of

stale cigarettes clinging to the polyester of her blouse.

Part of her seems older. Perhaps the part

that has been drenched in the same perfume

she’s worn since she was fourteen.

She chops onions at the linoleum table,

using a knife that seems much too small for

the job at hand. Her nails are hardened French

tips, sculpted extra sharp and infilled bi-

monthly.

You fix her something to drink.

You eat dinner lit only by the stove’s faint

light and listen to her stained red lips grasp

and pull at a cigarette.

Hot dust fills your nostrils along with the

smell of smoke, as you both realise whatever

was on the stove has caught fire.

The kitchen is ablaze.

Gently, and for the first time, she rises.

Without speaking, she fills a large pot

with cold water and pours it directly onto the

flames.

Steam erupts around her and, for a

moment, it’s as if she’s vanished along with

the fire. Like a magician’s assistant she

reappears, unperturbed, and sits back down at

the linoleum table.

‘Tomorrow, we’ll make something sweet.’