Cursed Bread

by Sophie Mackintosh

I can admit that in those days I was sometimes jealous of the dough my husband put his hands into,

I paused to admire him, briefly, like he belonged to someone else.

The ease of a story told again and again and again,

Yes, she said again. She was always saying it to him—yes, yes, yes—as if desire was only ever so simple, so affirmative.

and he looked up at me and ordered a boiled egg and bread. Black coffee.

ok phantom thread

That’s Elodie’s, he said. This is yours. He pushed forward an identical-looking glass.

yikes

I almost wanted to remain in that moment before anything had happened, relishing the possibilities of what might come next without having to see them through.