When Tara first told me about her affair, I was washing rice in a colander. She was perched on the kitchen counter, supposedly chopping onions and saving the peels to compost later. She crossed her long legs and stared at the floor, the knife silent in her hand. Later that night, we would be hosting a dinner party and had planned on making ghee rice with chicken curry and raita made from cucumbers and thin slices of raw onion. But now my hands stilled under the running water, and a tightness grew between us.
*This piece was previously published on Amelia's personal blog https://pretendedconfusion.wordpress.com.
Amelia David is a 21 year old avid reader of fiction, a former student of English literature, and an individual who hopes to break away from writing personal essays. She drinks too much green tea, and blogs occasionally at https://pretendedconfusion.wordpress.com