That tear-jerker about spaghetti

The woman tossed the spaghetti into the boiling water. She tossed the packet away, where it bounced of the rest of the trash in the overflowing trashcan. She worked methodically.

Watch for bubbles.

Stir the sauce.

Season to taste.

She didn't even have to taste it anymore, did not have to measure. She had done this too many times.

Spaghetti was his favorite.

The noodles were done. She took out the stainless steel colander, pour the spaghetti into it. The steam blinded her, burned her skin. Good. She grabbed the handle, tossed the spaghetti, the hot water splashing her arms. Good, good.

She grabbed the spoon, scooped the slippery noodles onto two spotless, white porcelain plates.

The sauce was done. She placed a large spoonful of tomato sauce on each plate, stopping for a moment to wipe her bleary eyes. Then she took both plates, one in each hand, to the table they had picked out together.

She ate without tasting, her eyes on his plate the entire time. And when she was done, she took his food and dumped it over the trash can. Most of it splattered to the floor, joining the already crusting remains of other spaghetti dinners. She had been at this for two months. Two months since she had innocently texted her husband as he came home from work.

Two months since he had died.

She carefully washed the porcelain plates. Then, she put another pot on stove to boil.

Spaghetti was his favorite.

The End

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