FIowerflies
I can see her. Fumbling around the kitchen, her hair tendrils tucked behind her ears. She is making dinner. I see her so calm and peaceful, she has no idea what's about to happen. I mean she has no idea that it happened.
She is cooking ladyfingers. I mean, of course, she is. Last night, she made poached eggs, which everybody knows I hate and the rest seems to like. Just the thought of poached eggs makes me nauseous. She is making up for that. I love ladyfingers. No one else does, I don't know a single person who likes them as much as I do.
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