American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 119

I went to the bathroom and poured it down the drain, but it
wouldn’t go. I ran some water until it went away.

101
FICTION

Jack asked multiple times if he could come over, and each time I
declined. His efforts at showing care dashed, he texted less, only
“G’night!” or just a winky face with its tongue sticking out. I knew
he was busy with soccer training camp every day. I knew that his
practices were at the same time as the women’s team, that Therese
was there. One day he wrote, “My mom wants to know if you want
to come over for dinner. She’ll make soup.”
I loved to sit at the edge of Mrs. Larkin’s cutting board while
she made dinner, to watch her slice farm tomatoes that were plumper
and redder than any I’d ever seen. She ran a health and wellness
center, and she’d tell me about her clients, who were all crazy and
repressed because their lives had too many rules. She had taught
me, as I was just then beginning to see, that there was a way of
living that was smart and healthy. At the thought of the thick,
herbed soup she would make, my stomach growled.
I wandered down to the living room, where I found my mother
tapping on her laptop. She had