FOSSILS
When the fiery crown of the sun drops behind the ridge, is that when loss burns fiercest? When you pile onto one plate a bulk of osso bucco and realise you’ve cooked for two again. Or when the one plate is drying on the draining board and you pause, belly full heart empty, wondering what to do next.
The first star shimmered in the western sky. She lingered by the sink, her heart wishing for love, not the toxic love she had known, a love not fit for disposal by conventional means.
Leaving her lonely plate she wandered to the living room, doggedly ignoring his collection of journals stacked by the front door. Was tomorrow garbage day? He always put out the garbage. She wished she could bag up her memories and put them in the garbage too; watch the pincers grabbing the wheelie bin,
