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Fiction by Lauren Mary Dilworth
Still Life with Bottle, Carafe, Bread, and Wine by Claude Monet, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington
At work, from nine in the morning until clocking-out at five, I sit on a poorly cushioned chair; worn out from all the asses that have sat upon it before. My mind wanders from the blue-light glow, and I am consumed, for eight hours, by the thoughts of coming home to you. A pit building up in the lower half of my abdomen, compounding cherry stems and cinnamon buns and icing. I’m wet at the thought. Heat rises from inside me, it rushes to my head, and I feel like I’m on fire. The tips of my fingers stand still over the top of keyboard letters, wishing they were no longer dry. Praying for the time I can dip my hands in, your warm innards enclose around me as I dig deeper and deeper. The mush I gather loads up under my fingernails. Jamming them. Ramming them. I’ll put in the work, everything I’ve got, to ensure you're done the right way. There’ll be something ooey-gooey I grab onto. Gripping it, I’ll fish it out, bring it to the surface. For a second it sits in my palm, and I feel drawn to plop it in my mouth. I wonder what it would feel like sliding down my throat. I toss it out before returning to you. Playing with knives and spoons and forks. I toy around with the plates too. We finish together, but I’ll never be done with you. Oh God, I cannot wait to do you, dishes.
Lauren Mary Dilworth is a Creative Writing student at OCAD University.