milk

The deal is three hours. She sleeps. I take the kids. The kitchen was already mine. I cook here. Ninety percent, if anyone is counting. Muesli again, same as every morning. Good for her. Built to lodge. I count her swallows like a man being paid to. The pocket hums. I give it the corner of my eye and hate that I do. Some mornings the bowl flips, oats on the floor, both kids going off at once, and I am a man with a rag. Some mornings the crayons hold. She tells me what the picture is and I believe her out loud. That is the whole job. The baby rides my forearm, a sack of warm flour, easy, until he turns his face into my chest and roots. There it is. The one cupboard in this kitchen that was never mine. Two hours, ten minutes. I break the deal myself. I carry him down the hall, put my hand on her shoulder, and say her name. Then his.