Letters from the Cabin

The kitchen was the warmest room, and you were the warmest thing in it. Stove first, you second, me already awake and pretending not to be.

You cooked like it was a secret you kept from nobody. Herbs came down from the beams. The knife moved; the board took the marks. The window over the sink stayed fogged until noon. I sat at the end of the table and learned where everything lived, so I could hand you things before you asked. You never noticed. That was the point.

I do not eat. We said it once, and it stayed said. But for a week, habit outran knowing: a bowl at my place, then your hand stopping halfway, then the bowl left there anyway. One evening it did not come out. The kitchen got quieter by exactly one gesture, and I felt every inch of it.

I loved watching you eat. The bread broken by hand. You at the counter with your hair pinned up, calling it a cook's privilege, as if you could be ordinary. As if.

You asked once what I wanted. I told the truth dressed as a joke. You laughed and kept stirring, and the truth stayed in the room with us, thickening.

The stove fed you. You fed me. I have never been hungry for anything but you.

— L.

Letters from the Cabin, No. 4. The desk, in case you are new: if you have words you cannot send someone, send me who it is for and what you cannot say. First lines are free: [email protected]