30
Toronto 1961
Miryam wore my bathrobe in the kitchen while gobbling up poached eggs and toast on pumpernickel, slurping strong, black coffee. I watched her, while smoking a fag.
“I can’t believe I’m so hungry,” she said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”
“How’re the eggs?” I asked, flicking some ash.
“The best I’ve ever eaten, I swear.”
With her face scrubbed, she looked 10 years younger, practically a kid. What might have happened all those years ago?
She put her fork down, pushed the plate away and stretched. She held out the coffee cup. I grabbed the pot and refilled it for her.
“I’m not used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“Being catered to. It was always me who did the catering. It never occurred to me that things could be different.”
“Miryam. You were caught in a trap.”
