The noodles expanded when we cooked them. It just didn’t seem like the pots and pans were hot enough. Loud enough.
A welcoming into. A fashionable length. The sandpaper was rough. The table was smooth. I sanded it myself. Long strokes with the grain. Short ones against.
The kitchen smelled of thyme, Rosemary. We ate our fill. Butter. Wineglasses sat on thin stems. Easily crushed in a strong hand. Sanding. Standing. Sitting.
She laughed when I filled one of the glasses with marinara. And let it dribble down my chin. It’s all leading somewhere. Pointing. Announcing and welcoming.
Whether or not you think you are, you did. Are doing. Have done.
Sit down. Tie this napkin around your neck. Eat what has been prepared for you. Long strokes with the grain. The equivalent bears no resemblance to the thing that we were talking about before. Not laughing or the sound of glass breaking. Not eating or rubbing or spilling. We were moving something if not ourselves.
song: “Hillbilly Band From Mars” by The Rio Grande Band
