(Italian Dinner Night by Aleathia Drehmer)
“What does it matter?” Rellis thinks as she lifts the pan with boiling pasta in it. The metal handle is hot and the soft, tender flesh of her palm begins to burn away all the lines fortune tellers make their living from. There is no one there to notice the inflamed red welts forming; no one to trace their cool fingers over them in a show of sympathy, or at the very least, understanding.
Rellis stands at the sink staring at her left palm as if it were the hand of someone she had never met. She studies the natural deep valleys where the skin comes together like architecture. She contemplates the cell’s formations, but cannot grasp the enormity of its simplicity.
In the tarnished basin full of coffee stains, the steam rises dampening the back of her seemingly disembodied hand and the pasta begins to stick together with its own starchy by products. She is unsure she was really planning to eat it anyway.
Rellis stays in the same position as the light dances around the room. The sun continues its journey leaving shadows behind as imprinted memories on the walls, rugs, glass, and her flat affected face. She feels like an insignificant form fading into the coming darkness.
The pasta is cold now and lays there in the green colander. It is as multilayered and thick as the workings of her heart, though slightly less intricate than her mind. Rellis is frozen over the sink.
What are you waiting for? the voice in her head whispers.