I stood in the kitchen

scuffing crumbs off the bottom

of my bare feet onto the

cuff of my ankle.

I had said I loved him

and I did.

It didn’t matter though

because I didn’t want him.

The curry on the stove simmered gently

Large fleshy chunks of meat

rising to the surface

I looked at him across the expanse

of the bench between us

he stared back, angry and sad

perhaps afraid.

I turned down the

stove and let him pull me

up the single flight of carpeted stairs

sticky and hot he slid in and

out of me. Cardamom and salt

drifted upstairs. I’d

forgotten to add ginger.

I pissed him out of me

when he was done

and held wet toilet paper

to my raw skin.

He wandered downstairs

a while later.

and found me peeling a

thumb of ginger with a

carving knife.