by Christine Collinson

As I wait for the cream to heat, I wonder do her palms glisten with guilt as he takes hold of her? My skin is the color of it; pale and even. Hers is the shade of summer, sprinkled with warm freckles. And he’ll surely touch all of the places they’re scattered.

I count the eggs. One, two, three… twelve. How many days have they met when they think I can’t notice it? I’ve seen her, sidling by our window moments after James departs. Watching me leave church, eyes cast downwards as mine flick to hers. When we talk together, fixed on him like a hog to the truffle-scent.

The cream is agitated with angry bubbles. As I lift it from the range, the skillet’s heavy in my hands. Amber yolks blur into the hot liquid and I swallow a familiar tightness in my throat. My hunger is dissipating slowly, just as the risen steam.

Perhaps I’ll be her shadow always. Or is she mine? Only James can choose; and I wonder how we’d be if he does. Upon my finger these five years passed, my ring binds with me to the end.

But she might yet sever it from me.

I return the skillet to the flames. Must keep stirring else it burns, as I’ve known before. Watching the thickening liquid whirl, I blink against floating smoke. My hair, and my skin, will reek of the kitchen on my pillow. A fool’s taint; sweet, yet bitter.

Sweat pricks my hairline as I stand the mixture to cool. I spoon in some wine and sup a little as I go. Had James seen, he’d have scolded it. He’d never favored excess on my part. The coolness glides to my stomach, carrying no burden. I glug more straight from the flagon, giggling a little.

My hand is not quite steady as I drop in sippets of bread. One, two, three… twelve? A bit over fried, but what did that matter. She may be a deft cook, a deft house-keeper, a deft lover. Must have traits I don’t possess, besides the sunlit complexion. I let my ire melt away; sugar crystals to syrup.

The dish is ready, but I’ve no appetite for it anymore. The creamy surface mocks me with its smooth perfection. Cursing aloud, I shove it to the back of the dresser and wring my sticky hands.

Now, I picture them. Her bare golden limbs beneath his familiar, warm skin. Masculine hands, following her freckles to their hidden places. And I’m liquid over fire again. Heating and heating, near boiling over.

Swiping it up, I dash the whole fool to the floor. Shuddering breaths catch in my throat at the spilling creamy sludge. It’s ruined. I’d labored hard, and it’s all destroyed.

In that moment of calm, I consider. I have no supper. A tearful smile begins at the corners of my mouth. For when James returns long after I’m abed, there’ll be none for him, either.