| A DIVISION OF LABOR I should have known, even when we were driving home; the windows were opened, the ocean odors blew in, you asked if the scent of the familiar would rush over the antennas and calm our blue-green bug, and if we might pull over and set it free. I should have known; by the time it took you to arrange and rearrange the pots, pans, butter, spices and spoons, over and over, that the job would be mine. With an embarrassed smile you opened your hands. Like a windup toy its spindly legs jerked forward. I seized it, up and over into the pot. And above I held the boiling kettle. I turned from you to hide my slight wincing, my face near the rising steam. A second, two, then directly over the head. "To kill the brain, the rest is all reflex," I reassured. Our meal turned as bright red as the grasshopper I once burnt when I was one of old King Lear's wanton boys who picked apart bugs for sport. Later, candlelight, soft music on the tape, butter over cracked opened shells, we scooped the meat and drank wine. Across from me, a steely look as you vowed, "Next time by myself, no more squeamish silly girl." But I thought if you were silly, then I wish you'd always be silly in that way. Contributor: Richard Fein
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