DinnertimePosted: December 16, 2015
The kitchen is a wreck. Cutting boards, knives, bowls, measuring cups, vegetable trimmings, all scattered about with reckless abandon.
She leans forward, elbows on the floured counter, hands cradling her face as the tears roll down without pause. The cat weaves his way between her feet, back and forth, rubbing and purring but offering scant comfort.
A key rattles in the doorknob; it turns, and the front door admits her husband. He drops his keys in the dish on the table by the door and heads straight for the bathroom.
She straightens up, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand.
He calls from the bathroom, “Dinner ready yet?”
“Not yet,” she answers.