War Story

My presence of mind necessary to hear her evaporated whilst she sat across from me

brimming with her story of how he harmed her, devoid of my story and his harm belonging to me now, and here we were trying to digest an undercooked Spanish omelette I prepared still wearing my coat cracking many eggs in a cold and old house with splendidly yellow yolks the larger the better to emerge amongst the whites, milk and cheese; and how I wanted you to immerse in me where above us both all my muck, spice and pleasure afloat.

but that wasn’t appropriate with your war story that enveloped this tiny nation of citizens with no voice to call home home until eventually this cemented silence arose  and so we ate lunch locked into the cold ambience of a mother daughter relationship eroticised beneath his unrecoverable violence.


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