By Lee DeAmali
He crash lands for a spell, bombards me with home-cooked meals, fresh baked breads, naans, and tortillas.
Then he’s off for another gig and I’m back to frozen dinners and unanswered attempts at communication.
Months pass and the house is infested with moths, traced back to the pantry. Untouched since he left, open sacks of flour have produced a jungle of crawling maggots and mealworms, webs and cocoons.
I’m teetering on a wobbly step-ladder, stretching to scrub clean all contaminated spaces, vowing again to not let him back in unless he promises to properly finish off every tightly-sealed package pried open.
Lots of great imagery from the writing.
thank you!
You can just feel the desperation in the narrator’s words. Very good story. And amusing, too!
Musician on the streets, baker in the sheets? Insect-infested flour bums me out worse than rotting vegetables. So much lost potential! All the bread baked throughout history and you’ll never smell it in a museum. Whaddya gonna do?