Rosemary

They slice away,

blood-warm,

with a sigh of red staining the white porcelain.

Candlelight puddles at the edge of the wineglass,

my husband’s voice is low,

satisfied,

his hand a silent weight against my own.

I bite.

Salt. Iron.

And—

something hard.

Not bone.

Not tooth.

Something foreign wedged between tongue and molar.

I reach in,

fingers slick with wine and grease,

and pull it out—

small, black-grey,

grain-rough against my palm.

Gravel.

The room collapses in on itself.

The air grows thick.

It is another night,

years before.

I am younger, smaller,

sitting beneath the chandelier’s harsh light.

The menu is a map I cannot read.

Her voice—

sharp, exact—

says I can order whatever I want.

It is my birthday.

I order the steak.

And she shifts form.

Her smile is a thin blade.

She says I am greedy, wasteful,

a spoiled little mouth.

She says this between every bite,

turning meat to ash before it touches my tongue.

The meal is over.

We walk to the car.

The take-out box is warm in my hands.

Her arm moves.

The box bursts.

Meat spills across asphalt,

red bleeding into dirt and stones.

Eat it, she says.

The grit grinds between my teeth.

My stomach lurches.

I gag, spit,

and her hand arcs through the parking lot’s yellow light.

The slap is loud enough to make someone turn—

and look away.

The taste remains.

Years rot around it,

but it remains.

A fork clinks against my plate.

The light shifts.

I am here.

My husband is watching me,

eyes narrowed.

“Are you okay?”

In my palm—

not gravel.

A sprig of rosemary,

dark as old pine in its leaves.

I smile,

fold it into the napkin,

and say,

“Yes. I’m fine.”

The taste remains.