Lydia's Kitchen

Flash fiction by Gina Margolies.

Lydia’s Kitchen

In a kitchen besieged sat two women. There were children there too, but they were not acknowledged. “I began to dream last month,” said the first woman, who yesterday learned her husband had stopped loving her, in the same way one notices that the rain has stopped only after it has already ended. “Nonsense,” said her friend who had children so did not have to work, which had not worked out for her. “You don’t just begin dreaming one day. You have been dreaming all along; you just don’t remember the dreams when you wake up. I don’t remember my dreams either.” If you don’t remember, how can you know, the first woman wondered, to herself, to avoid arguments that would further the embattlement. She sat in a chair already occupied by the shrapnel of a four-year-old’s breakfast and heard a faint noise. “Mice,” her friend said. “I dream about cruel ways to get rid of them.” “I thought you don’t remember your dreams,” the first woman couldn’t stop herself from saying. “I thought you don’t understand why no one likes you,” her friend said. The second woman wanted to go home, but she was already there, in a kitchen besieged.

Lydia’s Basement

In a basement besieged sat a boy and a woman. There were other children there too, but they were not acknowledged. “I had a dream last night,” said the boy, who had potential but needed attention to forestall a drift into mediocrity. “Nonsense,” said the woman, who wore earrings at home so the delivery man didn’t think she was dead. “Stop trying to change the subject. I was talking about something important. What was I just saying to you?” If you don’t remember what it was, how do you know it was important, the boy wondered, to himself, to avoid arguments that would extend the sanction. He sat on a chair that was already occupied by the confetti of several days’ worth of snacks and heard a faint noise. “Mice,” the woman said. “I was telling you to stop snacking down here because it attracts mice.” “I thought you didn’t remember what you were talking about,” the boy couldn’t stop himself from saying. “I thought you don’t understand why no one wants to hear your dreams,” the woman said. The woman wanted to go home, but she was already there, in a basement besieged.

Lydia’s Bedroom

In a bedroom besieged sat a man and a woman. There was a sleeping child there too, but it was not acknowledged. “I had a dream last night,” said the woman, who regretted everything past eighth grade. “I thought you never remember your dreams,” said the man, who often rushed to insult his wife before she insulted him. “But when you need to distract me, I guess you can remember.” “If you didn’t know you were being annoying, how do you know I want to distract you,” the woman thought, to herself, to avoid arguments that would expand the embargo. She sat on a corner of a bed that was already occupied by rounds of unfolded laundry and heard a faint noise. “Mice,” the woman said. “You promised you would do something about them.” “I thought you were going to do something about the mess of a house you keep,” the man could not stop himself from saying. “I thought you don’t understand why you are a nightmare,” the woman said. The man wanted to go home, but he was already there, in a bedroom besieged.