The Passport

THE LETTUCE LEAF

Amalie licks a-chicken bone. The lettuce crunches in her mouth. Windisch’s wife holds a chicken wing to her mouth. “He’s drunk all the schnaps,” she says. She sucks at the yellow skin. “Out of grief.”

Amalie pricks a lettuce leaf with the prong of her fork. She holds the leaf to her mouth. She speaks and the leaf trembles. “You won’t get far with your flour,” she says. Her lips hold the lettuce leaf tight like a caterpillar.

“Men have to drink because they suffer,” smiles Windisch’s wife. Amalie’s eye shadow is a blue fold over her eyelashes. “And suffer, because they drink,” she giggles. She looks through a lettuce leaf.

The love bite on her neck is darker. It’s turning blue, and it moves, when she swallows.

Windisch’s wife sucks the small, white bones. She swallows the short pieces of meat on the chicken’s neck. “Keep your eyes open, when you get married,” she says. “Drinking is a bad illness.” Amalie licks her red fingertips. “And unhealthy,” she says.

Windisch looks at the dark spider. “Whoring is healthier,” he says.

Windisch’s wife strikes the table with her hand.