mythos / logos

it's warm in here, she said, removing her coat and laying it over a stool. it was an antique, once carved out of cherry oak in his great-great-grandfather's orchard.

he made to fill up the copper kettle from the tap and set it on the gas stove. he turned the knob and the bright blue flames burst beneath the griddle.

he gestured for her to sit. she pulled out another stool and sat, crossing her legs.

she studied the kitchen for a moment, eyes drifting from the engraved handles of the pantry cabinets to the sharp steel of the knifeset on the counter.

he caught her gaze on the knives. present from last christmas.

she made an appreciative noise of understanding. he crossed his arms and leaned next to the stove, careful to avoid the knobs on the burner.

how do you feel about biscuits? he said. to go with the tea?

she smiled again. i've never been known to refuse an offer of biscuits.

he caught her smile and turned around. his arms rose to open the cabinet doors in search of tea biscuits. she hoped he still had the lemon and ginger ones from his grandmother; it had been ages since she had last tasted them. it hadn't felt right to ask for the recipe.

she wonders how many minutes, hours, and months had taken up residence in those ages between them.

isn't sally rooney the writing style these days?