NOT A HOLLYWOOD MOVIE
by Lori Levy

We talk about love.
Sometimes I love you more, sometimes less, he says.
I feel the same way.
Think spectrum, range, hot warm cold
as in water from a faucet, the flow increasing, decreasing,
the temperature not always perfect, but good enough.
Or we could say it's a matter of orange juice, eggplant . . . 

He is groggy in the morning. I wake up renewed and ready for the day.
Ready, first thing, to squeeze oranges for him.
He can't begin, doesn't want to begin,
without a glass of fresh juice 
brought to him in bed. A simple act for me.
For him, a big ahh, quenching, invigorating.

I don't have patience to fry eggplants for dinner.
He does. He stands by the stove, tender with the slices,
spicing them exactly right, turning them exactly on time.
I devour the eggplant, stuff the browned slices into pita bread
with cheese or eggs, tomatoes, hummus. With anything, everything.

Some moments we meld --- grateful
to be living this life together.
Other times we argue like kids.
I tell him his way is mood-based, head in the sand, slow.
He says I have no priorities:
everything is important, demands attention.
Sometimes you can't stand me, right? he asks.
We laugh. This, too, is true.

Still, he craves my orange juice, I could die for his eggplant.
Hunger, Thirst. We could call it love.

~ as published by Young Ravens Literary Review (2020)

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