Capacity
by JESSICA CHONG


Tonight, when I didn’t feel like talking to you after dinner, I stood at the
kitchen sink and scraped at the dishes with a spoon. I heard you come up
behind me and when I felt your arms creeping around my waist, I brought
the spoon, face up, to the faucet, spraying you and me and the window. You
withdrew, went upstairs to change into a dry shirt, and I took everything
from the fridge and shoved it down the garbage disposal. I took your bills
and pushed them down too, and your photos on the fridge and socks by the
door and anything that was soft, anything that was hard too, like your
sunglasses, yes, even our wedding china, and the telephone and the keys.
And then I decided to feed it my hair, and then the rest of me, and from inside
its bowels I encouraged it to swallow the kitchen and the staircase and the
upstairs bedroom with you still in it, halfway into your shirt.
JESSICA CHONG is a native of Hong Kong and studied Geography at Vassar College. Her creative writing has appeared in Helicon and AQ. She is a twin.