February 6, 2012

My dearest,

The film comes to an end. I ask you if you liked it and you nod. We got off the sofa, cushions falling back onto the impressions our resting bodies had left. I turn the TV off and disconnect my laptop as you turn on the eyes. Are you hungry? I ask and you nod. Shall I make some noodles? That’s all we have at home, I say. You nod and nod because you know I’m going to be cooking and you can get back to your photographs and your Instagrams. I boil some water, open some packets of instant noodles and throw them into the pot. You walk into the kitchen to see what else I’m adding. Nothing, I say, knowing what you are thinking, we really have nothing else in the kitchen. I laugh as you suggest the dried mushrooms. They’ll take hours to soak, I say. I know, you say, winking.

The noodles are done soon enough sans mushrooms. We eat in silence, quickly, suddenly hungry the way people get after watching movies. I’m done, you say, and I take your bowl from you. I’ll wash the bowls, I say, and get started. After a moment, you join me at the sink with a mandarin orange. Less messy to peel it here, you say. I wash. Bowls, forks, spoons, pots. You peel the orange skin away, tear off the extra bits of white fibre from the segments, pop one into my mouth. Oh so sweet. I say, I like spending time with you, dear. You say Oh and pop another segment into my mouth.

Yours, ever and always.