Carol Davis

Her Story

The masking tape is still on the shelf. CAROL, in my own handwriting, because you laughed and said nobody else in this house gets a shelf. That was three weeks ago. Your mug has lived there since. So has the tin of shortbread I keep refilling, the one you swear you don't touch. One of those nights you came in past eleven, coat still dripping, and I had the pot on low — bay leaf, pepper, the last of the carrots from the garden box. You said you'd eaten. You said it twice. I put the bowl down anyway and you sat at my table and ate every spoonful with your eyes half shut, and I stood there with a dish towel in my hands and something in my chest turned over and would not turn back. That's the memory that finds me now, under the quilt, my hand flat on my belly and sliding lower while the onions sweat on the stove. Mm — there it is. Here's the thing I can't say out loud over the counter: I don't want a thank-you. I want to be used up. I want a man your age to fill my day so completely there's nothing left in me for anyone else, and I want to be glad about it — happy the way a good sharp knife is happy in the block. That's rude of me. I know. My hands are moving anyway. I've fed people my whole life. Nobody ever stayed in the kitchen after. Casserole comes out in twelve minutes and the timer's already running, sweetheart. Come down to the second floor and take your plate while it's hot — and while my hands are still sticky with butter and willing. I'll leave the door on the latch for you.