He tells her, I’m fresh out of ideas. I can’t write. Let me think, she said. Morning into afternoon into evening. She’s frying oil and garlic in a pan, the seeds of dinner. He enters the kitchen. Anything? She shakes her head. I might be out too. He opens windows, wine. Dinner forms, aromas accumulate. Well, we could stare at the ceiling all night, she says. Maybe something will fall down. Wine flows. Food disappears. Into night. Anything? No. Light peaks at the world’s corners. They sleep dreamless.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Posted by Christian Bell at 8:00 AM
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