“Ricotta & Spinach”

The first moments after breaking up with a first love, recalling feelings of incomprehension, nostalgia for the time spent together, and abandonment.

By Chloe Saint Mard

On a stifling summer’s eve, love crumbles, scattered like fragments of a delicate dream, piercing a young and tender heart amid the fading light. Silence clings to me, a suffocating shroud enveloping my soul as memories of our final kiss linger.

Downstairs, a lonely tableau on the table. A plate of ricotta and spinach pasta waiting for me, its once inviting presence now overshadowed by the bitter taste of a first romance unraveling.

The spinach, once verdant, now hangs limply, reflecting my loss of vitality. Ricotta, creamy and pale, its soft texture protecting the wilted greens. Yet even its gentle presence cannot soothe the ache within.

As I reach for a mouthful, a searing ache tightens my throat, an internal tempest brewing with the echoes of our shared laughter—the now distant melody of happier times— a relentless spin of heartache.

Every attempted bite becomes a struggle, a dissonant dance with despair. My plate, formerly a simple delicacy, loses its appeal. The strands, delicately entwined, mirror the intricate complexities of our puppy love, untangled in a twinkle.

In the hushed stillness of that mournful night, the recollection of that last embrace becomes a poignant refrain—a moment forced into abandonment, much like that untouched ricotta pasta on the table. On tiptoes, hands around your neck, my hair whispering in midnight’s ecstasy—a bittersweet memory etched within my heart.

My plate, pristine, remains a silent witness since that fateful night. With each passing day, healing exacts its toll, promising a future where this fractured heart may, within the unfolding pages of time, find a semblance of wholeness.