Ellipses

Ellipses

She wakes up in the kitchen, a lemon in one hand, zester in the other. Naked fruit is scattered across the counter. A stray orange floats in the sink, a buoy amongst shipwrecked dishes. Bewildered, she sets down her burden and tastes her fingers. Sugar, cinnamon. Citrus. And rum?

Yanking open the oven, she stares at the cakes inside. They belong to one of her favorite recipes, a decadent pile of rum-soaked layers and butter-cream frosting. She eases them out, gripping with scorched potholders. Perfect.

The cooling rack is ready. She flips the cakes onto it, yawning when she sees the early AM blinking on the clock. This is the special-occasion-only dessert; it takes two hours to assemble, even after it’s been baked. She’ll finish later.

She wonders what it’s for.

. . .

She wakes up in her bedroom, forehead pressed against the door, hand on the knob. Letting go, she winces at the cramps in her fingers. As she returns to bed, she notices a red mark on her head from leaning. She touches it, makes a face, and slips back into bed. He moves to make room. She sips the jasmine tea on her nightstand; it is some time before she falls asleep again.

. . .

She wakes up in a coffee shop, sputtering as her drink goes down the wrong way. It spills into her lap, staining her red skirt. The man sitting across from her jumps up to help, blotting the liquid with napkins. She stares at his curly black hair, too confused to make any effort to help. He finishes with a rueful smile, and takes her cup for a re-fill.

Sticking a finger into the half-eaten pastry at her place, she licks the filling. Chocolate mousse. The crust is dry, flaking across the tablecloth and littering the front of her shirt. She brushes at the crumbs with a shaking hand. She has no idea who this man is.

Their wedding rings match.

. . .

She wakes up in the backyard, her back sore and her knees throbbing. A shovel lies nearby, its handle broken, the blade smeared with red mud. She tastes iron.

Pulling her knees to her chest, she rocks and tries to ignore the half-filled hole next to her, the tip of a shoe poking out of the soil.