This morning as I made breakfast, I burnt my hand. I see only the heat waves. I leave the stove on, but with nothing on it. I sit down on the couch with my palms facing up on my lap. As I stare at my hands, you walk into the room. You’re already dressed. Pressed suit and tie and expectant of food. I don’t notice you as you kiss the top of my head and leave. I sit on the couch with my palms facing up on my lap for the rest of the day.
You return home. I am still in the same position- all that has changed is the light. You must have turned off the stove on your way out. Then, not at all surprised, I break my trance, go into the kitchen and turn the stove back on. You stand in the doorway, loosening your tie. I put oil in the pan and watch it slide around. You lean in the doorway, monitoring my every move. My wrists are bandaged. I have purple crescents under my eyes. I throw some bacon in the pan. It’s breakfast for diner.
You take over in the kitchen. The temptation is just too much for me. Before leaving, I run my fingers along the top of the burner just to feel that sensations briefly, one last time. I go back to the couch and sit there with my palms facing up on my lap.
Dreams don’t visit my sleep anymore.
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