would help in some way, so that they would not go to waste, because she could no longer stand their taste.
—I thought maybe, she continued, leaning her elbows on the table, narrowly avoiding the crusting smear, maybe I would try planting indoors. Small herbs. Garlic.
—The living room gets a lot of light. Those windows.
—But where would I get the dirt?
—No one sells soil anymore?
—You can’t trust where it comes from. I can’t even trust the backyard. But it’s so hard to get good food now, after the scare, everyone’s afraid of what could happen.
—Good news is, both carrots and potatoes contain naturally occurring radiation, so perhaps that’ll help irradiate them or build up people’s immunities.
She gaped at him. Blinked. Then. She laughed. A dry surprising laugh caught wind, sailed from her lips that smiled despite the potatoes and the carrots, despite the wind and the rain, despite the years, despite her. For a moment he saw her, just as he remembered, and for that brief moment he thought he might smile too, but then the moment faded, the smile flickered, the sadness leached back into her eyes.
Radio
She stood up again. Howling oppressive silence and rain spattered streaks of light tinged the room. She padded, feet numb, to the radio clock above the toaster, dialed the analog knobs through static. His eyes followed her. After a minute or two of fruitless scanning she switched the radio off
Morgan Fox | 21