Drinker of Ink

by Shannon Castleton

“Could you tell me before I go—” I looked at her chin, then her hands, remembering how ink would be splotched there. Her skin was a scrubbed-blank page. Except for a dusting of flour above one eyebrow that I would have loved very much to kiss away. “Are you still writing?” I asked. Pulling her arm from my grasp, she reached into the refrigerated case and ran a finger along a few wrapped items before tapping a cookie and picking it up. She set it in my hand without touching my skin. “Not writing”—an oven-timer was buzzing—“but I perfected the chocolate chip cookie.” She took another step away from me. “Among taking care of some other things.” I peered down at the cookie in my hand as though it were a gift of the most fragile blossoms.