'Pumpkin and Pecorino' by Sara Beadle
Pumpkin, Pecorino and Sage soup lay stickily where our relationship had been. I hated the pretentiousness of it as I watched the yellow splashes dry on my bare toes. The cheese oozed and congealed as it warmed where I had dropped it on the dirty patio. The sun was ruthless, and made everything smell and seem worse. I sat down without trying to avoid the mess, my limbs sinking heavily onto hot, unkind concrete, burning me, saying I told you so.
I listened to the dull thunk and pad of him in the house, packing, disassembling, tearing from our beautiful home the things he didn’t want me to have. I heard him slide things from our life and place them into bags and boxes and I reached out my toe to the place where he had been standing when he said it. I closed my dry eyes and wondered what she was like. When I opened them my feet were in the soup, and the thick warmth made me feel sick.
Sweat trickled between my breasts as the house grew quiet. I heard a slow descent, heavy footsteps, laden with luggage and the new past. The click of the front door, and my blood slowed, waiting for it to be over so I could begin to think about how I would lift my head from the pillow the following morning. I stood as the engine roared to life, and walked soup through our house to watch him drive away.