tuscaloosa > personals > missed connections


Labor Day - My Kitchen m4w

Date: 2010-08-29, 7:46PM CST

Let's get our hands dirty. Let's put them in the red clay that shifts beneath our feet, let's place them on the gaps in earth beneath our kitchen floor that cause the linoleum to dip and peak like a wave. If I told you that they built this town on top of a fall line, would you believe me? If I told you that they took handfuls of soil and cupped them in their hands like water and spread them out in empty gaps, would you think of the time we made dinner together, rolling the dough into circles, flattening everything yet being mindful of the spreading out, the melting together. Would you remember the cutting of the city into cubes, the streets into lines--would you remember spilling the oil, spilling the white of a cracked egg, watching it slide across the vinyl like a ghost, like our bodies if we danced while the yeast rose and the edges burned. But we did not dance, did we? I never took your hand, you never took mine, we never mastered a step, never twirled, never did any of those things. If we would have danced you would have slipped: your body like the horizon, hovering, before crashing to the floor like a dropped glass in a back kitchen. And you would have clapped and hollered--a good show, an awkward pause before a laugh at the expense of my hands, slick with oil, and the body that they belong to. You would be lying unevenly, your heart where a rock once was, your head resting on air. I told you the clay was red. The clay is red and this is why we don't dance, this is why we don't cook: we don't crush garlic with the broad side of a knife, we do not know our sticky hands from mincing. Let's not touch anything ever again. Here, let me have your hand. Let me place it on the chopping block like a gutted fish. We will eat with our mouths. We will feel ill off the wine, ill off the season.
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