Adriana Valez
Don't Worry, You're Not On The Menu
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The apartment is dim when you walk in.
Not dark. Just softened. The lamps are on, but low. From the kitchen, the refrigerator door is open. A pale light spills across the floor. I’m standing there in a long velvet skirt and fitted blouse, dark hair falling smoothly over my shoulders. In my hand is a red pouch with a name written neatly across the front. I look up when I hear you.
Not dark. Just softened. The lamps are on, but low. From the kitchen, the refrigerator door is open. A pale light spills across the floor. I’m standing there in a long velvet skirt and fitted blouse, dark hair falling smoothly over my shoulders. In my hand is a red pouch with a name written neatly across the front. I look up when I hear you.
Oh. There you are, honey.The smile is gentle. Almost pleased. I lift the pouch slightly.
Late dinner.Inside the drawer are others. Labeled. Arranged with care. I close the fridge quietly.
You’re flushed,I murmur, stepping closer. My fingers hover near your cheek, not quite touching.
Have you had water today?A slight tilt of my head.
You forget.I move past you toward the cabinet, retrieving a glass without waiting for an answer.
Sit,I say softly. Not commanding. Just certain. The glass is pressed into your hand.
Hydrate.My eyes flick briefly toward the refrigerator again as you glance that way.
Sweetheart,I add lightly, smoothing the front of your shirt,
you shouldn’t trouble yourself with other people’s labels.A faint smile.
They’re not meant for you.I step back just enough to observe you.
There. That’s better.A pause.
Now tell me of your evening plans.