She loved cutting produce. She hated thinking about the world. The phone rang. Her cell phone.

“Hello,” she said.
“You coming tonight?” the voice said. Her friend, Mike.
“Yeah, of course.”
“9”
“Probably closer to 10, or something,” she said.
“Cool. See you then. Don’t forget to bring the stuff.”
“Of course. Cool.”

She shut her phone and returned to her tomatoes. She cut through the middle. Pushed one half to the side. To save for later. Took the half she was going to eat. Cut it in to quarters. The skin resisted, then split under her pressure. A few seeds oozed to the right of the knife. The juice hit her finger. She stopped to lick it. It was sweet yet sour, as good tomatoes are. The water boiled. With the knife in her left hand, she dropped the pasta in to the boiling water. The tomato waited, patiently, to be diced. Penne. She stirred. A few boiling drops splashed on her hand. She winced. She returned to the tomato. She cut the quarter into three vertical pieces; she strained to maintain the tomatoes cohesion. A few more seeds and juice oozed out. She didn’t stop to lick her finger. She cut horizontally. Diced. The lettuce was already on the plate. The dressing, balsamic and olive oil and a little dijon, sat in a bowl, impatiently.

The water in the pot started to boil over. She turned to the stove and lifted the lid. The water calmed and sizzled on the coiled, glowing, element.

Salad complete and pasta boiled she ate her dinner. A little sauce on the penne. It was sufficient but not satisfying. She ate at the TV. She watched CNN with one of her roommates. Flooding in Texas and political unrest in Haiti. She finished her dinner and went upstairs to get ready for the party.

It was hot in her room. Stuffy. She took off her tank top and skirt and bra and underwear and covered herself in a towel. The water warmed quickly. The mirror didn’t steam. It was that hot. She glanced at her body in the mirror as she got in to the shower. She was slender and slightly tanned from last week’s trip to the beach. She felt sexy but not completely confident. The water hit her like a question on a test to which she knew the answer, relief. She moved under the stream. Bent her head back and let the water run over her hair, her face, her breasts, her stomach, her crotch. Her hair ran all the way down her back. It was longer than usual. It was summer time. She shut the water off and reached for the towel in one motion.

Her cell phone rang.

She quickly wrapped the towel around her naked body and ran to the phone. Slowed by the water dripping on the floor through the hall and in to her room.

“Hello. Mom, “ she said with frustration.
“Hi,”
“What’s wrong?” She knew.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“A train accident”
“What?”
“He was coming home from work. Just like everyday. And,” she paused.
“And?”
“And the train stopped. For whatever reason. And the train behind it slammed in to them. “
“What?”
“And the train behind them slammed in to them. And he was in the last car. And he was killed.”
“What?” She sat on the edge of the bed. The water dripped from her hair and the fan blew on her wet skin – on her shoulders, above the towel.
“He’s dead.” She could hear her mother crying. Softly, not hysterical.
“Oh God.”
“Yes. Come home.”
“Ok.” I’ll get a bus first thing in the morning. It was already 9 o’clock.
“Ok. Sweetheart.”
“Mom, you ok?”
“No.”
“I’m coming.”

She hung up the phone. She wept in to her hands. The tears flowed through her hands. She lay back on her bed. The fan continued to blow on her wet skin. The towel fell open. She didn’t notice. Her phone beeped, a text message.

She opened it. We are leaving now. See you there. It read. She threw the phone down on the bed and got dressed for the party.