Four of its kind

love, a plate of curd, and a mistake

Cauliflowers always reminded me of how stupid I had been being in love and allowing the heat to drown the part of me that thinks. But I didn’t care. We were the wild whirlwind; violent, spiral and rapid. That evening, just beside the plate of the Cauliflower curd, I read the content of the card without the yellow note inside the envelope. I had passed the knife through my temple when the yellow note slipped out of the envelope. It read: “Annie, this is what I found on my dad’s table this morning. I think he is going to divorce my mum. What do we do?”


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