March 21st, 2010.

Light and greens, she’s plucking stems from parsley, dill and other leafy herbs. The white of the walls and countertop match her top and bowl, the plants falling from her poised hands bouncing amongst themselves. Cooking in itself is a performance.
I’m sitting on the edge of the sink, chewing rejected stems and avoiding the shelled reptile that scours the floor for feet as we chat.
She’s flustered, we’re all just tired you see.
She’s pulling bits and pieces of green out of the sink now, rinsed and washed, her hands trying to make do in the small space. “Ah shit!”, genuine frustration, the soap sliding into the rinse water,
“Ah fuck man! Now it’s full of soap.”
The remainding leeks waver in the soapy water, little o’s of pearly white and green staring back at her mouth that wishes to consume them.