Steam rises in her face. She rests her hand on the stovetop and finds it warm to the touch. It calms her. She turns down the burner heat and lets the stew simmer, scratching her ankle with the heel of her piggy slipper. She draws in a deep breath and exhales loudly, plunging her hands into the pockets of her fleece housecoat. The stew settles into a steady roil, peppers, onions, and carrots turning up over thick chunks of cubed beef. She pulls the Bisquick from the cupboard, ripping open the top, giggling as the dry mix puffs up in her face. She doesn’t feel like cleaning tonight. There is so much food to share. It’s a shame he won’t be here to taste it. Oh, but if she doesn’t clean tonight she’ll dread the coming day. She puts the lid on the stew and turns the heat right down, heading into the bathroom with gloves and garbage bags, the tub filled with stripped bones. READER Caucasian female, late 40s, wearing puffy jacket with hood and powder-blue hand-knitted cap.
