pie for frank

i made roasted potatoes and turkey loaves for dinner for Frank. he enjoyed it while i burned the roof of my mouth on a potato too hot to taste, rosemary and olive oil dripping from its paper skin. after dinner i sat for a while tonguing a blister formed on my palette, popped somewhere between my homemade strawberry rhubarb pie and rasberry ice cream. after the potato skin - my skin- a charred flap of not-so-opaque epidermi that i could rip off, then finger its delicate texture. frank didn't noticed- albuterol breathing treatments last about 10 minutes, just long enough to catch a smoke outside. when i came back, frank asked if he could have a piece of pie, a piece of the already half eaten lattice-crust strawberry rhubarb sitting on the counter. "frank," i remind him, "you've already had two slices, are you sure you want another?" He didn't seem to hear me and folded his snotty tissue into a tiny square. i rolled up my tiny swatch of mouth skin into a little ball. we watched tv in the dark, in silence, until it was time for me to leave.