start with the beginning

Before the door is even open, Ruby can hear the cat. Once inside, Boots follows her into the kitchen, weaving in and out of her gait; not caring when she drops the bag with the carton of half & half and block of part-skim mozzarella on his head. Accidentally, of course. Cats have never been her cup of tea. Something entirely too needy and sinister about them all at once. And she hates fur. Well, that's not true. Ruby longs for a fur coat, but that's beside the point. Especially now that she's here, alone -- where it's never cold--with no prospects of going out.

For a few minutes she see-saws in her mind, going back & forth between wanting to flee this empty house and wanting to roll up her sleeves and fight back lonliness with a scrub brush and a paring knife. She starts by re-doing her ponytail and tries not to imagine the color of his new girlfriend's hair. She probably loves cats.

The counter is covered with breakfast crumbs -- a week's worth, at least-- so she rinses out the checked cloth and wipes the stale bits of bread into her hand waiting under the lip of the counter, the way her mother taught her. Next, Ruby unpacks the paper bags, puts the summer squash in the fridge, empties the tomatoes and apples into the broad-brimmed bowl. Does cilantro need to be refridgerated? She's not sure but guesses the chilly inside of the crisper might be a luxuary and not a necessity in the life of an herb. C'mon, she thinks. Stop talking to your groceries, girl. You're not that insane yet. It's going to be okay. She tries to believe herself as she stacks the yogurt and rinses the strawberries. Mostly she does.

Even so, later that night, as Ruby reaches into the closet before stepping into the shower, she can't help but wonder. The single green towel left on the shelf--so self-contained by its own terrycloth folds-- how did it learn to love its solitude? To keep company so well with itself on the bathroom shelf?