Atalanta

There is a soup on the stove that tastes like wine and salt. Eventually it will cook down enough to be put on pasta and eaten, eyes still teary from onions, sometime before what is considered a reasonable bedtime for a woman of a certain vintage and temperament.
   I no longer know what's right.

There is a fourth-grade boy inside of me trying to get out. If you were a girl I would dip your braids in ink, trip you on the playground, call you names. Unfortunately, my cruelties are subtler than that.
   When I treat you bad (it can be both adjective and adverb, yes, I checked), I don't just feel guilty afterwards, I am horrified. This has been going on for quite some time. Believe me, it is not just you.
   And if I say I'm never calling again, take it as a compliment—I'm only trying to save you from a lot of trouble. You'll thank me later. They always do.