She had bushy permed black hair like an average middle-aged woman. Occasionally she would chew gum as our heads stared at my math textbook where I scribbled solutions to each question. Like her dog, she was observant. She would quietly hug me from behind for a few seconds, release me softly, and mumble, “It is sort of an emotion-deprived syndrome, you know.” Her son would enter her tiny apartment during our session, slip into a bathroom across a thin wall next to where we sat, and take his hot shower. She would spread a large towel arms-wide to cover her son as he slipped out of the steamy bathroom into his room; he was too tall for the apartment. In the kitchen, she pulled out a white cubic styrofoam box. She called my attention, opened it like a Pandora’s box, and stared at my face, challenging me. Black, wrinkled, and bare-bone chicken feet sat in the box hopelessly. She pulled two out, one to me, another to her mouth. She sucked it with her jaw and then spewed out little white pills of bones. I followed, feigning courage, but my stomach was already ready to repel what was to come. Cold, rigid, and salty, I wanted to destroy it as soon as possible. When it dissipated into my stomach, I was grateful. She smiled. I felt the warmth coming back. I had grown up a little then.
11.11.2023
Ralph with Coffee 