the quiet aftertaste
By Heather Emmanuel
The dinner hums on. Stainless steel, pans of hand-hammered copper. A row of knives neither dull nor sharp. Black marble gleams in rehearsal. Salmon overseasoned, carrots drenched in balsamic glaze. Tides of crimson brim in bulbous glasses. It swirls. In her head, so do the guests — wives and husbands, co-workers and almost-strangers. They marvel at food they will not eat. Their teeth glisten, a silent proclamation. Newness. Renovations. Flights. Imported chefs. Wine is spat out too quickly. A new gathering before the last is over, a ritual dressed as novelty. Afterwards, under the warm white kitchen lights and the weight of marred plates, the drone of the dishwasher becomes her background music. Home in habit, she completes the choreography of the evening. Hunched at the island’s edge, she disposes of what she will never name.
Heather Emmanuel is a writer of contemporary lesbian literary fiction and prose poetry. Her work is forthcoming in The Offing. You can find her at heather-emmanuel.com or at @heather.emmanuel8.
