The mustard is hard yellow hot mustard, Keen’s in a small glass jar. I remember when you chose it against all other mustards; no matter what happens I will never throw it away. The chicken is wrapped carefully but looks cold and angry. One, two, three little olives floating in the brine of my brain. The beets were beside you; the beets said we think badly of you and the way you behaved at the funeral. I cut my hands on the fish in the freezer. The solid mass of corn I take to the sink is the size of your head: I try to crack it apart. The radishes are black and wet but I wash them and salt them until they stand no more of my tears. I toast the stale butt end of the bread. I hate it when my tongue touches down on the strawberry jam.
I stopped eating because it was too painful. My sister suggested I try ingesting different things. Different from what I ate with you. Like what? Like anchovies and rice, she said. Like smelts on black bread. Like fruit punch. Like beef tongue and blood pudding. Things she likes. New things. Don’t eat anything you know he hated; don’t eat anything you know he loved. He’s gone. And you’re not going to starve yourself on my watch. Get up. Get ready. We’re going to that new Ethiopian restaurant downtown. I’ve already made the reservation.
New Ethiopian restaurant?
We used to make a game of finishing all the supplies we had in our apartment before we would go out into the real world to buy more. We’d boil the last egg, slice the final pickle, jam the limp celery down into the blender to make cold soup. And when the late-night news came on in our bedroom we felt ashamed for being so gluttonous. We drank our wine until we passed out and forgot about them, the poorest people on earth, people who could not make a game of their nothingness, people who would not have found our empty freezer very funny.
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You’re fixated! This fridge is for food. But I had hidden the mustard. The swollen garbage bag leaked a brown tear across the kitchen floor.