Saturday 9am

I stir the cereal around and watch the milk turn pink. I try not to let the spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl. You’re looking at me again.

             “I didn’t like it.”

             “I know you didn’t.”

             “Don’t do it again.”

             “I said I won’t.”

You throw back your tomato juice to wash down your antihistamine. You’re still looking at me so I know it’s not over.

             “Maybe we can try something else.”

             “We don’t need to try anything else. I told you I don’t mind.”

             “I want to try something else.”

My loops are growing soggy. The washing machine has started its spin cycle. I try to block it out.

             “Let’s try, yeah?”

             “Okay. If you’re sure.”

             “I’m sure.”

You finish your drink and look away. The door clacks behind you.

I close my eyes and listen to the plates clattering on the wall.