It was raining when we met.
I watched him swell with a smile;
a soft-bellied grin. He thought it was cute
I couldn’t swim.
That night, he cooked.
I knew then he was a catch,
Standing there in oven mitts
trying not to let the boiling water
make him nervous.
We had waterlogged pork and floating potatoes.
His pruny fingers rippled my skin
and I kissed his neck, ignoring the wet sheets,
splashing around until our bodies drowned the bed.
It’s morning now, and he’s making breakfast.
You know, I said, I met a psychic
who said I’d fall in love.
Really?
Yes, I said, but she told me it wouldn’t last long.
I don’t believe her.
Me neither, I said, but if she was right,
what do you think would happen?
I would kill myself.
How?
First, I would try handwriting my suicide note,
but the ink would keep running.
What else?
Then I would drop a dryer in the tub,
but the current would go right through me.
What else?
Finally, I would run a bath and disappear.
Would you be that lonely?
I’d be drowning. How do you
like your eggs?
Runny, I said smiling.
