Green & yellow tomatoes stew in the pot of red sauce. We don’t use spoons tonight
because Jackson prefers knives, so with one hand he lifts the stained knife, a
pierced tomato to my rosé lips while the other nestles chardonnay. I think, he
mustn’t be drinking tonight, but then a splattering of tomato sauce gives itself to the
blue canvas of my blouse and wine spills over my glass because I’m pinching its
stem like an amateur, and with all this romance backfired on the counter, my shirt,
my face (in curious rendition of the drip period), I attempt to wipe my cheek.
“Don’t,” he says. It is worthy to be framed.