peanuts

I pick at the peanut shells sitting at the bottom of the bowl. The clumsy clanks just tell me she’s trying. Again. I don’t need her to try. For the hundredth time.

“I don’t need you to try,” I say. I pick up half of a shell and peel off a hair. “For the hundredth time.”

“I have to, honey,” she says. A loud bang. I wince. Her face appears from behind the wall hiding the kitchen from my view (an architectural design made for the safety of me, most likely). She smiles through her lipstick.

“I’m okay with leftovers, you know.” I pick up another shell. She disappears into the kitchen again.

“You’re always okay with leftovers, honey.” More noises. I don’t think of venturing in to see. “You’re such a good girl. Always okay with everything. Why don’t you ask for something? Mommy, I want eggs. Mommy, I want french toast. Mommy, I want--”

I put the shell down. “I don’t want anything. I don’t even call you Mommy.”

“Now, now,” she calls from the kitchen. “That hurts. I miss when you called me Mommy.”

“When I was like, one years old?” There’s one peanut that hasn’t been peeled. I crack it open.

“You did it a lot, you know.” I hear the fridge open. “You loved me so much. I still have videos.”

“You threw them out when you said you’d clean out the junk.”

The fridge shuts. “Oh my god!” Chopping noises, uneven, amateur. “I thought those boxes were only the old photos. I didn’t think I threw out the video cassettes.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “You did.”

“I can’t believe it. Why didn't you tell me?”

I shrug. She doesn’t see it, but she doesn’t ask for a reply.

I glance at the clock. It’s quarter after seven. My bus comes in fifteen minutes.

“So how’s life?”

I contemplate not answering her question. It’s ridiculous.

“It’s ridiculous.”

A pause. Supple, but mostly indifferent. “Because of me?”

God, no. You’re not at the center of everything. “Kind of.”

“Why?”

“Actually, not really. Never mind. I don’t know.”

“Honey,” more chopping noises.

Five more minutes pass, and I hear the pan sizzling.

“Omelets?” I ask.

“Yes.” She pauses. “Oh my god. It’s already eight twenty--I’m five minutes late.” Her face appears. Then her body. Her legs, her arms, so thin and dainty. Her cheekbones give me a sympathetic grimace. “Honey, I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I don’t think I can finish making your breakfast. You know how to cook--what am I saying? Of course you do. Just finish making it--I made most of it, you just have to cook it--and then make sure you get to school on--”

“I know how to do this.” I pop a peanut in my mouth, throw the rest into the bowl. “I’ve done it every day of my life. Just go.”

“Thank you, honey.” She hops over to give me a kiss on the cheek. I don’t move.

“I’ll see you later, honey,” she says.