The silence in the kitchen between the three
of us is deadly. Luke sits at the table—in my seat now, not Kent’s,
he plopped down there and the look my lover gave him was enough to
make him switch chairs without a word—and he shovels in his eggs,
watching me as he eats like he’s waiting for my lead. Kent puts the
groceries away, storming around the kitchen with stiff steps,
throwing cans into the cabinets and slamming doors shut, the look
on his face curbing anything I might want to say.
There’s nothing to say, really—the
easy talk between Luke and me is gone, replaced with an unnerving
tension that hangs over us like a funeral pall. Every time Kent
brushes by me, I jump. I want to ask about the showerhead but
don’t, I feel his mood building like thunderclouds, I don’t want
his
