Mia’s in the kitchen and she’s screeching like a kettle. The plates go smashing off the tiles and I think of the meal I won’t have to eat now. You can’t, she wails, you can’t fucking do this to me. Well, I already did, didn’t I? A vicious battery of spice jars sends splinters off the door and I’m pleased with what I’ve wrought. I’m all-powerful as a celebrity judge. It doesn’t matter what you make, I say, you scorch the palate off me and I can’t taste the food. (But she gives me water and it tastes like rain.)



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s