She sat in the chair by the wall, thinking of the artichoke she had prepared last night. The fleshy leaves, spine-tipped, the soft concealed heart. One by one they had peeled the leaves of the artichoke away, dipped them in hot butter, scraped away the flesh with their teeth, smiling, laughing, even, at the events of the day, hers at the art gallery on campus, his in the Dean’s office, the “foolery of academia,” as he called it.
But then he went home to his wife.
She sat, alone, by the shadowy wall, pink morning lighting the window box geraniums.
She kept only the heart.