honey hollows

It was a Saturday morning when I woke up to a note on his pillow, I’ll be right back, it read. I remember rolling over and smiling in his smells, back aching from the weight of my belly, hungry and still sleepy. He came through the door, a faded blue shirt, clean jeans, and baby’s breath. Did you bring me flowers, I asked him. He handed me a small arrangement of purples yellows with green stems and small white baby’s breath. I love you, he said. I love you too. I got up to drain a small vase and arranged the flowers, setting it on our windowsill, for light, I told him.

We walked through the town that day, his hand holding mine, occasionally reaching over to touch my belly, through streets with mismatching signs and past the park where the crazies slept. I stopped in front of a café and he asked me to wait outside, he came back holding two cups and kissed me. Rooibos. Did you sneak a taste of mine, I asked. He smiled, handed me a warm cup of herbal tea, and locked his warm hand in mine. We bought tomatoes that day, ripe ones from the farmer’s market, red yellow and plump, and large grey mushrooms, yellow onions already beginning to peel, a box of noodles, the cheapest ones we could find. We walked around the carts, tasting small sweet red strawberries, juices flowing down our fingers and we bit into one.

We made spaghetti that night. He cut through tomatoes and their red yellow juices flowed freely down the wooden cutting board to the sink. He sliced mushrooms into small thin as paper portions, diced the onions in uneven lengths, and cut through red yellow green bellpeppers, dropping them all into a large silver pot on our stove. I would make him close his eyes occasionally, stop what he was doing, pop a bellpepper in his mouth and make him guess the color. The water began to boil when he was done with the slicing and I dropped a handful of dry noodles into the pot. I blew on the small frosty bubbles and they disappeared, revealing yellow noodles and clear hot water.