rice milk

Elias filled his glass to the brim. The water always was the perfect temperature in the mornings - not too hot, not too gold, like a damn Goldilocks callback. He raised the glass to his eye level, staring at it in awkward appreciation. His husband’s muffled frustrations lost in his focused state.

“What are you doing?” Greg barked a little aggressively, frustrated that his venting went unvalidated. 

“The water,” Elias called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the glass, “it’s always perfect in the mornings.”

“I’m trying to talk through something here.”

“I know you are.” Elias turned and leaned against the far counter, staring out at the warm morning light that pushed through the loose blinds. “When I was young, my father used to make this cooked rice - what did he call it? Rice milk, I think. And that’s all it was, rice, milk, and sugar. Like homemade porridge of some kind. I think I’ll make that tonight. I miss the smell of it.”

“Is this you trying to distract me?” 

“No, no. I hear you. I support you, you know that. But, this life, it goes quick is all. I’m just trying to enjoy it.” 

-b

September 18, 2020

Photo Credit: Klara Avsenik