My Cardboard Balcony

Mulling the Future Over Dinner by Belinda Roddie Mashed potatoes, avocado, cayenne pepper on my lips, love stains on my fingertips. Winter winds are few and slight. Apple cider, sparkling red wine, bubbles dancing in my throat. Think I'll build a tiny boat so I can sail the world tonight. She drinks soup and rum together. He'll only touch jasmine rice, sugar, spice, and everything nice, argue 'til you know he's right. I just eat my avocado, garlic salt sprinkling my tongue. There's enough for everyone to get fat on before they fight.

There was a faint glimmer of moonlight painting the horizon, and I took that as a sign that we should slow down our walk and find a place to settle. We pitched the tent to the growing sound of crickets, like thousands of violin bows squeaking against stone in the night. As I set about opening cans of rations, I watched as my wife strolled toward an outcropping of rock, singing an impromptu tune between sips of canteen water.