by Susan Weber

There’s something to be said about the couple at the kitchen sink peering into a plastic tub of fried eggplant. One of them takes a whiff, one points a bony finger at a tiny irregular edge. Not mold, they agree, it’s a crust of ice. In the vegetable drawer there’s basil picked yesterday, insinuating pesto. We’re drowning in basil, help yourself! the neighbor had said. There are rolls, also aging. They'll toast-up well for eggplant sandwiches.

Which will it be tonight?

The decision bubbles up in a river spanning two ridged brows, a shared logic born of decades bearing witness to the ravages of time.

Pesto it is, my loves. The sandwiches can wait.

Photo by Rasbak CC BY-SA 3.0