waiting for her. She hesitated, imagining what Colin would say, but then she saw in the crinkle of his eyes that his smile was real and deep and kind and most importantly, completely devoid of sympathy.
* The second time Ellen visited the butcher, a week after the first, she brought a bottle of wine she had chosen from among all the bottles in her pantry. Second only to frozen squash lasagnas, people had brought wine after Colin died. Maybe it was something you’ re supposed to bring, that if you Google what to bring a widow, wine is the first thing that comes up.
The butcher met her at the door this time, and the smells surrounded her before she was all the way inside. There was garlic again, but this time a much deeper smell as well. She breathed in, closing her eyes.
“ Roasted chicken?” she asked.
“ Yes,” he said, and she handed him the bottle.
“ Sit,” he said, and before Ellen could even take off her coat, he placed a plate in front of her, slabs of moist chicken, the skin the color of honey, roasted potatoes, asparagus, and over it all, a thick blanket of gravy. She hadn’ t realized how hungry she was, but once she started eating she couldn’ t stop. She couldn’ t remember the last time she had eaten something that wasn’ t thawed or microwaved. She treated each bite like it was its own meal, feeling the textures on her tongue as if she had never eaten before. The butcher watched, matching her pace, nodding as she talked between bites about important things: how she hated mushrooms and loved to clean and was afraid of hummingbirds.
“ You look tired,” The butcher said. He uncorked the bottle of wine and set it between them.
“ I haven’ t been sleeping,” said Ellen.
* The third time Ellen visited the butcher, the shop was brighter than the week before. New light fixtures hung over the table, which had been sanded and refinished.
The butcher came out from the back, wiping his hands on his apron.“ Ellen!” he said.“ You came back.”
“ Of course I did,” she said, and laughed, which felt good.
They sat until the afternoon became evening. The butcher talked about meat and about the weather and about bluebirds and dirt roads and how good the wine was, all things that mattered.
*“ There’ s my apprentice,” the butcher said when Ellen returned the next day. She hadn’ t planned to come back, but she got up that morning so hungry she thought she might throw up from the emptiness.
“ I’ m sorry,” she said, sitting down at the table, which had fresh flowers in a vase in the center and two coffee mugs.“ I’ m sorry,” she said again, unsure exactly what she was apologizing for. Her skin felt heavy. Her eyes hurt.
“ I’ m so hungry,” she said.
The butcher smiled and went into the back. She listened to him whistle a tune she couldn’ t quite place, something from her childhood, maybe. She thought about her mother.
The butcher returned with two large plates. There were eggs over easy, crisp bacon, potatoes with garlic and paprika. He set them on the table and sat down across from her.
“ Eat,” he said.
* The days got shorter and colder and the leaves outside her bedroom window turned from orange to brown. They hung like ornaments on the emptying limbs. Every morning Ellen got up, checked the temperature, dressed, and when it was light outside, she drove to the butcher’ s, where she’ d put on an apron and get to work doing what needed to be done. Winter passed.
* One evening in March, Ellen and the butcher sat at the table after a meal. It was getting late.
“ Time to close up,” the butcher said, and as she stood up, Ellen pictured the sign on the post outside, the word OPEN burned into the wood, and she laughed. She stopped. She gripped the edge of the table. Her throat closed.
“ This was the one place,” she said, and there was panic in her voice.“ The one place I could go and not see him or smell him or hear his voice. The one place where I couldn’ t miss him.”
The butcher nodded.“ I know,” he said.“ But just now I thought, I can’ t wait to tell Colin about this. I forgot.” Ellen sat back down. She stared at the butcher.
“ I don’ t know what to do,” she whispered, her breathing fast and uneven.“ What do I do?”
The butcher chose a bottle of wine from a high shelf behind the counter. He turned it around in his hand, looking carefully at the label. He twisted the cork from the neck, one turn at a time, four slow twists, until it came out with a small pop, like a breath caught in a throat.“ You keep going,” he said, and poured them each a glass. n
Emily Rinkema has lived in Westford, VT for 30 years. Her writing has been selected for the Wigleaf Top 50, Best Short Fictions, and the Best American Nonrequired Reading anthology, and has appeared in journals such as Vestal Review, Pithead Chapel, Milk Candy Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly. She is an assistant editor for Flash Frog and believes that an upside to the shortening attention spans of readers is that more people are discovering( or re-discovering) the power of short fiction. You can read her work at emilyrinkema. com or follow her on X, BS, or IG(@ emilyrinkema).
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