Don’t Forget Sunday Dinner, We’d Love to Have You

It wasn’t because their son cancelled again that Millicent slammed the package of chicken on the counter, not because he texted and didn’t bother to call, not because he wrote “I’m sorry Mom” and “something came up” and “next time for sure” that she poured herself a second glass of wine, that she exhaled loudly as she flicked the garlic skins sticking to her fingers, that she told the scallion’s slimy outer layer to go to hell, not because their daughter had already cancelled three days before (“We don’t eat meat anymore Mom”) that she sliced her finger peeling the potatoes, tightened the Band-Aid until the tip of her finger showed purple-blue, that she watched six drops of blood plop into the garlic sauce, that she stirred the blood in, watched the burgundy melt into the golden-brown, not because she was feeling the wine already that she bumped the end table on her way to call upstairs to her husband, that she kicked the pieces of the vase after it shattered to the floor, that she swept the pieces into a dustpan and hurled the broom down the cellar stairs as her husband called out “What’s going on down there Mill?”, that she imagined saying out loud to him “Jesus John, if you’re gonna lie to me about that girl at least get your story straight first,” not because it was Sunday again and she had stupidly dressed in the new blouse and earrings and her hair dye looked strawberry pink instead of auburn that she dreamt of screaming into their faces until a single fucking one of them looked up from their dinner plates to see her.

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Timothy Boudreau‘s recent work appears at Retreat West, Ellipsis, X-R-A-Y, and Riggwelter. His collection Saturday Night and other Short Stories is available through Hobblebush Books. Find him on Twitter at @tcboudreau or at timothyboudreau.com.

Lead image: “Peeling potatoes in a kitchen” (via Flickr user Nenad Stojkovic)