\nWord Count: 486<\/p>\n
She was standing at the stove, stirring a huge steaming pot that came almost up to her chin. She turned around at the noise, stared as he shuffled past her and put the heavy load down on her clean kitchen table. \u201cWhat you got there, old man?\u201d she asked, hurrying over to clean the dirt that knocked off the old bushel basket as he plunked it down.<\/p>\n \u201cPeaches. Art\u2019s got a shitload of peaches this year,\u201d the man said proudly. He moved out of her way as she cleaned around him. She rinsed out the rag and knelt down to wipe up the clods of soil he\u2019d tracked in across the linoleum squares.<\/p>\n \u201cI wasn\u2019t planning on doing no canning this year,\u201d she grumbled. She was scowling to show him she was angry at him, at his fifty years of presumption.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at them,\u201d he said. \u201cThey\u2019re perfect this year. You don\u2019t get them like that every year.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank God for small mercies,\u201d she said. She wouldn\u2019t look at the peaches.<\/p>\n \u201cEh, what’re you bitchin\u2019 for? You like eating them in the middle of winter.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou<\/em> sure do.\u201d She was pulling out plates and forks and knives from cabinets and drawers. \u201cGet them off the table, will you–if you want supper.\u201d<\/p>\n He lifted the weight with a loud grunt, set the basket down on the floor in a corner. \u201cThey ain\u2019t that much trouble to do up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou ain\u2019t never done them!\u201d she said. Her grunt was softer, more a hmmph!<\/em> of annoyance. He washed his hands at the sink. She set the table after wiping it clean again.<\/p>\n They ate in silence with a focus on the task, each moving in their own steady routine. He ate all his meat and then the potatoes before he started in on the carrots and cabbage. She moved like a carousel horse around the plate, dipping a fork in each in turn.<\/p>\n \u201cCoffee?\u201d she asked, though he always had it after a meal.<\/p>\n \u201cYou got pie or somethin\u2019?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cBlueberry,\u201d she said, already pulling it off the counter. She counted the coffee scoops into the old aluminum percolator and filled it with water. He pushed back his chair and leaned back with the day\u2019s newspaper in hand.<\/p>\n She finished washing and stacking the dishes, turned down the coffeepot on the stove, and stood waiting for it to turn the right color brown in the little glass bubble on top. She folded and hung the dishtowel. She looked down at the basket, bent over and picked out a peach<\/a>, straightened up and held it up to her nose and sniffed. It was gold blushing crimsony-orange and felt fuzzy and firm in her hand. She glanced over to the old man quickly, to make sure he hadn\u2019t seen her smile.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" THE THING ABOUT PEACHES Word Count: 486 He struggled up the three stairs and into the kitchen, the screen door banging shut behind him. She was standing at the stove, stirring a huge steaming pot that came almost up to … Continue reading ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/susangibb.net\/blog3\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/06\/026.jpg\" "\\"Premier")
<\/a>He struggled up the three stairs and into the kitchen, the screen door banging shut behind him.<\/p>\n