The soup was too salty.
She knew it the moment
her spoon touched her
lips — the sharp sting
of overcorrection, the
panic of a cook who'd
been distracted.
The kitchen light buzzed.
Her daughter was home for
the first time in
months, sitting at the
counter, scrolling her
phone, hair a different
color now.
She ladled another bowl,
set it down. Her
daughter took a sip,
stopped scrolling, looked
up. "Same recipe?"
"Same." She lied.
They ate without music.
The window fogged from
the heat. Her daughter
reached across the
counter, squeezed her
wrist — a quick press
of fingers, gone before
it could become a
moment.
The salt stayed on their
tongues long after the
bowls were empty.