Cold Marble: The Heat She Hid - by Cassandra Mile

The marble stayed cold under her palms while the amber light held the narrow strip of counter. Nonna’s cardigan sleeve had already brushed his forearm once. She did not turn. The glass sat where Marco had set it. Heat climbed the back of her neck and settled, unwanted, low between her hips. Days of ordinary plates and lemon oil had worn the distance thinner than either of them named. He stopped closer than the hallway required. She told him he was underfoot and walked past with her eyes on the floor. At night the house emptied of the middle generation’s voices. She reached back without looking, or lifted the dress, or bent over the edge of the bed and guided him lower. Each time the shame burned hotter than the stretch. Each time she wiped the counter afterward and told herself the body had acted alone. His mother came home early on a Saturday. The grocery bag settled on the table. No one spoke. At supper Nonna ate half a slice of bread and asked about the tomatoes.