Nobody remembered the first time they ate there. They only remembered the need to go back.
He didn’t look up. “A mirror. But you eat the reflection.” muki--s kitchen
The double hyphen was always a puzzle. A stumble. A secret handshake you didn't know you were making. Nobody remembered the first time they ate there
I picked up the cracker. It was dry, plain, almost nothing. almost nothing. She was small
She was small, ageless, with flour-dusted forearms and eyes the color of burnt honey. She wore a stained apron over a grey sweater. She did not greet us. She simply cooked.