The taste of chocolate is on my tongue, thick and snaking over the layers of my mouth, exposure. The slight breath of mint, and the thickness returns.
It wasn’t the usual knock-on-the-door morning; she crossed the lawns, the stone-patch fence and walked slowly up his driveway and waited on his porch. The knock was tentative, on a different door. Shuffling, waiting.
The door opened to a thin man of medium height, light brown hair ruffled, blue eyes squinting.
It was strange how she could look into his life at that moment, four pictures tucked away in a poetry collection from 2002. The wind chimes were quiet. Apparently he loved dogs.
“Would you like some tea,” he said. Turned his back to the open door. She followed him, picked up an orange polydactyl. For the most part, it was another day. She picked out the tea pot covered in black swans.
“I’m sorry about your brother.” The voice was a detachment on the walls.
She turned the lights down in the living room and opened the high window blinds. A curtain of white sunshine fell into the room. High-glossed binding blurred on the book shelf; she turned her attention to trying to read titles—
her fingers were small against the books,
almost as small as his had been.
“Me too,” she said, without memory.