AN OPENING OF SORTS
I want to write on paper what you like at the shops with a pencil I must sharpen halfway through. For you, I will master the garlic peeling, the chopping of onions, the understanding of a new recipe, the taking on of messiness. I want to twirl pasta for you, laugh if you smile at the bite, think if you will eat it on top of bread. Ask me how my day was. Ask me if I napped in the sun, if I came home happy, if I got beer and oranges for the evening. If you kiss me mid-chew across the table, hurried-like, desperate and soft (after I answer yes yes yes), then I will reach for your face. For you I will press in. For you I allow the forks to clatter. Now I want to show you my kitchen mess, dirty bowls and greasy pots. Clutch them close in our chests and inhale the warmth of their necks—the tender radiance of it all.
Hannah Newman (she/her) is an Atlanta-based writer currently working on her master's in Professional Writing at Kennesaw State University. She likes to write about dark or bittersweet things (big surprise) all in the shapes of short stories, flash fiction, or poetry. Her work can be found at Adelaide Literary Magazine, Nuance Magazine, and The Loch Raven Review.