my wife only cries when she’s washing dishes, because there is no window to look out of. there’s no space between her and herself and her dreams. she knew a long time ago that she was going to die in an abrupt way, so she hardly slept and kept her worry beads tucked below her chest. when the worry would wear on her and welcome itself in, she played pretend. it parked itself across from her, at her mother’s kitchen table and she knew.
she plugged the sink with paper towels and tennis shoes. she turned the sink on with her teeth and sat down. death is what’s for dinner. pull up a chair.