Dinner for One

She revels in knowing that these are the days she’ll recount to her children’s children. She thinks about the advice she’ll give, advice she never received because of her own family’s conservatism.  She makes dinner; sauteing onions and garlic that mix into a smell that never fails to make her feel closer to her mother, dancing to music that gives her no choice but to move (even when she’s at work or on the train, tired or upset). She dances while the sweat drips off of her, while the onions sizzle, while the water in her glass threatens suicide over the edge. She stops only long enough to drink it in greedy gulps, then begins dancing again in a movement that suggests she never stopped. She lets the water spill, thinks about all of the thirsts she gets to quench. When the food is done, she piles it onto a green plate, licking her fingers as she does.

3 responses to “Dinner for One

  1. I originally read that the onion was committing suicide over the edge…So I pictured a sliced onion standing the on edge of the pan threatening to jump. Thanks for your writing.

  2. You and onions make me cry. Thanks for reading.

  3. Didn’t you learn anything from your piece last week? Sex sells.

    Stop trying to be creative and start generating mass appeal.

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