My dry hands, gripping the edge of the kitchen sink,
are pale as the piled dishes in front of me;
the squeak of the plates scraping against each other,
almost inaudible—but it makes me grind my teeth.
and from somewhere in the room,
I hear you say, something about,
her lying about a boob joband that trip to
and how Christmas makes you sad—
I listen to the metallic ting of the running faucet 's steady stream
vigorous tapping against flayed aluminum,like tiny precious stones, trickling down the miles of pipe below—
and interject so quietly that there is no movement of my lips:
but you would rather go to church EVERY Sunday,
than EVER talk to a therapist.
I sigh through my nose;
sound of splashing, soothing
as I rinse the last dinner plate.