Not Italian

Last night, when I came home, you were making dinner. I could smell the spring onions and curry spices from outside. You turned round to look at me as I walked in, made a strange noise, then went back to your cooking.

I sat down on the cold kitchen floor and lay on my side, one arm stretched out as if reaching for something, and stared at the back door.

I was thinking.

Sometimes I think you don’t think I think. Well, I do.

I was thinking, ‘Where has the Italian man gone? The one who used to live on the top floor?’

I thought, ‘You’re not like him. You’re not like him at all. He liked to make me dinner, all the time, and let me share his bed.’

You carried on cooking, stomping round the kitchen with heavy feet, bending down occassionally to tickle me in the stomach and make some stupid noise before going back to the food, which I knew you wouldn’t be sharing.

Because you never do.

Probably because you’re not Italian.

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