Arden Levine

She tells him she's leaving him and he bakes a pie. His pies are exquisite, their crusts like crinoline. He doesn't change clothes, works in slacks, shirtsleeves rolled. Summer makes the kitchen unbearable but he suffers beautifully, tenderly cuts the strawberries, pours into the deep curve of the bowl. She hadn't missed his hands since last they drew her to his body. Now she watches them stroke the edges of the dough, shape it like cooling glass. When the oven opens, his brow drips, he brings his hands to his face.