Red and Yellow

We tried to never dine out because they would always look at us disgusted. You would bite my left ear, and I would screech because my piercings would start to bleed ever so slightly. A quick peck on my bare shoulders would make up for the rough love though, always. (Remember that sour woman in a vicious blazer on the bar counter, how she stared at you, and then at my muffin top? As if I wasn't good enough for your body that quite often resembled shiny men on glossy magazine covers.)

Thai red curry. Never at that tiny Thai joint two blocks away. No take outs from Kim's. "Your hands, they're magical." Something like that. That, maybe. You said that, didn't you? I would plead, heck, beg the woman who runs the salon to let me get off work early on Fridays, so that you would be enticed by the smells of my apparent magic as you walked in. So that you would forget that there were three six-packs in the fridge, so that you would stare at my eyes as you ate out of the golden ceramic bowl that my mother gifted us when we rented this dilapidated house. (But you always remembered the beer, didn't you? And the remains of the ceramic bowl that you kicked across the dining room, parts of which went flying through the window of the kitchen? Still in the fourth draw of my dresser in a plastic bag.)

I remember that last day. (Do you?) Red splatters across the kitchen floor. Well done, I'd say. It didn't look like blood really. No one would know. I wiped it clean, no marks. Just as I used to do when you spilled the tomato soup on that Sunday afternoon.

That diner across the road? I am going. Yellow scarf around my neck, no one needs to see anything.

"A glass of sangria, please."
"And?"
"A single portion of sticky rice with Red curry."

I see that woman with that blazer. It doesn't look so vicious this evening.