The Ex

I would come home, there’d be a drink and a kiss, and the food would all be prepped, laid out peeled and chopped ingredients with no menu, clean pans and utensils hanging, satellite radio playing music from a country the ingredients might reference, and she’d maybe linger and talk or wander off. Either way, I’d strap on my apron and whip up a bangin’ meal she’d appreciate, and as we ate I’d thank her for her beauty, saying, “Thank you for your Beauty,” and she’d look at me, beautiful, mid-chew.


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