Breathing and Fava Beans
I pushed the tablecloth out of the way and dumped the bag of fava beans onto the table. I looked at the clock. This shouldn't take long.
The chair was pulled away from the table, but I didn't sit. I hunched. I snapped the tips and pulled the fiber like a zipper. I ran my thumb down the crease. Sometimes it was smooth. Other times it was not. Breathe. Sit down. Relax.
I breathed. I sat down. I relaxed. I looked at the clock.
She told me about a lovely dish. Small potatoes. Onion. Fava beans. Wild fennel. So simple. The way it should be done.
With some cheese and bread, this could be a meal. A respite from pasta.
Even better at room temperature. I'll pile it on the bread, no doubt. Making a mess. Salt on my lip. A tiny cube of ice floating to the top of my half consumed glass of red.
It was already too late when I noticed. The work of shelling fava beans beneath my nails. The door was locked. My arms loaded with bags.
I noticed again at the light. I wondered if others would notice. I didn't care.
I ran my thumbnails beneath my fingernails. This will have to do.