By Anna Dubey

I fell in love with her on Thursday. It spread warm like broth. Something about the butter curl of her hair scooped under a hat. I told her I read about stew in the war books. She told me war is hell, and we made stew. Her hand pressed over mine mincing garlic. Our breath mingling with broth misting our lips. When I reached to take off my apron, she caught the knot in her hand to draw me close. We piled our bowls steaming with stew. Mushrooms, creamy potato, carrots softened tender. She kissed a spoonful into her mouth. It was like soldiers, how they rest at night.

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Anna Dubey is a college student studying biology. She’s interested in exploring evolutionary and environmental themes through literature. Her nonfiction writing has previously appeared in Encyclopedia Britannica and the Peoplehood Papers, and her creative writing has appeared in Stone of Madness Press.

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