Peas

12Mar08

I am asleep, secretly harbouring left-over hurt, when Chrisie falls into the sink.

Over the salt stone candle, she picks out the rice from her risotto, I pick the peas. Hers pushed to one side, sticky parmesan-coated. I like how they were frozen not long before balancing so deceptively garden-fresh on my fork. Just when I’m thinking maybe we should swap plates, she arranges her face into the shape of the suffering accompanying her greater sensibility. Her words stop my heart for a second, and I feel five, four, three, choking tears and green garden peas.

So when she falls into the sink, elbow pushed uncomfortably into the half U-bend of our matte silver taps, the laces of her cons tickling the terracotta tiles as she kicks, I stand and laugh.

When I wake, I am still laughing. Passing on the stairs like fleeting things meant to be mutually exclusive, we both wear our left-over anger faces. I wonder if she caught my dream through the white walls.

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