By Kelli Rule
She washed a light blue Pyrex bowl and cracked a few eggs and got to work on some hamburger patties. Her mind wandered, the filmy glaze of yolk and albumen disappearing into the meaty grind with every sucking knead. A rhythm developed. She was squeezing a heart back to life.
He showers before dinner. He sees the pale underbellies of lime-green tree frogs pressed against the pane glass window. They fade to faint peridot blobs as the glass fogs. His body feels like a shell minus its crab. His mind floats outside of it.
For a blissful few seconds, nobody’s home.
Beautiful piece.
Thank you, L.J.
Wistful.
I’m happy you liked it, Sue D. Thank you for the feedback.
A kneading rhythm all its own.
Thank you Geraint. – Kelli