My Cardboard Balcony

I Tasted Onions And Dill by Belinda Roddie I tasted onions and dill when I kissed her, the white walls of the diner closing in around us. I took her back to my apartment so we could watch a brand new episode of her favorite sitcom while eating homemade nachos laden with fresh salsa, guacamole, and pinto beans. It wasn't dramatic; it was simple. It was divine, however, at the same time. I was thrilled by the way we both were straightforward: Me with a gut, her with a scraggly hairdo, us both with a mighty appetite. I adored the flavor of her lips - the taste of matter-of-fact love.

Sentenced to an unquantified number of years in a small penthouse with no windows, no doors, and a flatscreen television with all of the voices playing outside her head. She cradled her own rolled up blanket like something from an unyielding womb was nestled inside it - the child she had not wanted, could never want, and would get rid of because she didn't want it. But in this world, it was murder. Sacrilege. Dishonor.