Confession

“Can I tell you something?” she says, throwing her cigarette into the gutter.

“Careful,” he says. “Watch your dress. Go on — fire away.”

“I cook alone.”

“Okay,” he says, trying hard not to smile. “I mean, all of the time?”

"Yes — always alone.”

“Well, I suppose that’s alright.”

“Why do you think that is though?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can’t stand seeing someone mess up your kitchen. Dirty your pans.”

“Yes, perhaps that's it.”

A car passes, sending a swell of filthy water onto the pavement. The organist trudges on.

“Are you ready?” he says. “Everyone’s waiting.”