The China Cabinet

After the funeral, he settled into a solitary routine. When the funeral platters were finished, he ate a microwaved Swanson every night at the table where they’d shared their meals. Afterwards he’d linger there, staring into the China cabinet. She’d collected decorative plates, the souvenir kind, kitschy mementos of Disneyland, Mount Rushmore, Nashville. One day he boxed them all up and hauled them to the car, drove to the Niagara Escarpment, carried them to the cliff edge, and spun them like frisbees out into the void. He missed her desperately, but she should never have thrown out his Dylan records.

Inspired by My Late Mother's Collections. Photo by Jane Stotesbery.

Ships in the Night

“Do you like it?” she asked. 

     He contemplated his plate. Lentils, barley, an obscure Andean grain, stirred with tofu. It tasted like the vacuum of space. “Mmmm-mmm,” he replied. It might have been a moan. 

     “It promotes a balance between the fungi and yeast in the human gut and bowel.” 

     His own gut roiled dangerously. 

     “Everything in it is hand-raised, low-volume organic. You can tell by the taste. Mass-produced food is completely tasteless.” 

     Truly, it was mouth mush, but he agreed, thinking, oh, for a saltshaker. He took another forkful and admired her chest through the corner of his eye.

Inspired by A Work in Progress for the botany, and Films versus Movies for the relationship. Photo by Commercial Eye.

Archimedes’ π

Archimedes had observed an intriguing relationship between a circle’s circumference and its radius: it was constant! He’d publish the finding immediately, but he had to come up with a term. He couldn’t think . . . Mrs. Archimedes kept banging around next door. “Would you please,” he said, barging into the kitchen. “I’ve just discovered—”
     “You old coot! You’re not the only one gets ideas around here!” There was flour on Mrs. Archimedes’ chin and perspiration on her forehead. She held up a circular dish topped with pastry. “I wrapped dough around apples and baked them at 360.  I’m calling it ‘pie’.”

Some French Guy

“What’s the first thing that attracted you to me?” she asked, head resting on my shoulder.
     “Your mind, of course,” I lied, knowing where my interests lay. Why did she struggle with her looks? She was a committed feminist who would not be made prisoner to them, yet she obviously enjoyed their effect.
     “Beauty is a precious gift,” I ventured diplomatically. That set her off on the oppression of gender roles in patriarchal society. “‘One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman’,” she said, quoting some French guy.[1] Typical. That sounds just like some French guy.

[1] Simone de Beauvoir