And the source was Muki.
She spoke for the first time. Her voice was warm gravel. “You’ve eaten your sorrows. You’ve eaten your joys. Now eat the thing you have never known how to name.”
On the plate: a single, unadorned saltine cracker. muki--s kitchen
She was small, ageless, with flour-dusted forearms and eyes the color of burnt honey. She wore a stained apron over a grey sweater. She did not greet us. She simply cooked.
Muki watched. She never smiled. She simply nodded once, as if to say, Yes. That’s it. That’s the taste. And the source was Muki
I finished the cracker. The other diners finished theirs. We sat in that perfect quiet for a long, long time.
We all looked at it. Then at her.
The double hyphen was always a puzzle. A stumble. A secret handshake you didn't know you were making.