What causes a person, having decided to eat some of the baked oatmeal on the stove before stepping out of the house — not in too much of a hurry mind, but hurried enough as to not grab a bowl — to start eating from the middle?
I live with this man but, somewhat to my surprise, this man is not me. To eat across the pan, or even around the edge of the pan, either of these I could understand. But to dive straight for the middle? This I cannot comprehend.
He is gone now, only the pan of baked oatmeal remains, it’s perimeter anyway.
The morning has laid bare my sexism for all to see,
The hole in the oatmeal,
It was not him,
It was her.
She who made the oatmeal.
Is it still a crime? Is a person, he or she, entitled to mutilate their own creation? Perhaps the only crime is my presumption — of his guilt.
