We sit down to eat and the food evokes strong memories. I can hear my mother singing. I feel her presence. This is a complicated meal, I say.
Twisters
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I was shopping for socks and a salesman came up to me and said, These are quite lovely, and I said, I don’t care. I’d never felt more alive.
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She knew he was a chef and that’s why she asked him if he braised with soda and he said, That’s a good idea, and so she called him a foodie.
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You bite into a burger as a passel of joggers run by and one of them’s cute, but you’ve got juice on your chin and it’s a damned fine burger.
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The rain ended and we walked the wet pavement to the car. She called me stupid just as I realized I’d left my keys inside and she said, See?
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I sure can eat, I boasted as she took my empty plate, and she said, I bet you can, and she winked and I felt a twinge, but it was heartburn.
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She took my hand just as the batter hit a home run and I said, Look at that, but I fumbled for the right words because my team had just won.
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I wanted to say something. She noticed the look on my face and said, Don’t tell me how you feel. I returned to expressing myself physically.
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I slipped the meat to the dogs. She filled my plate with more. You’re killing me, I told her. The dogs started to howl. And I shat my pants.
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They killed a man and left town and fell in love, and consummated that love in the back of a Chevy. Even though she preferred imported cars.
