The old house had an open-air courtyard and, as usual, Mila was milling about with the same empty cardboard box which she liked to put over her head. It was her space, her way of dealing with people she did not know and did not want to be with. Lost in another daydream, she heard her father’s voice:
“Mila, come taste this new, improved way of making us mashed potatoes!”
His tweak to improve a humble bowl of mashed potatoes? Mash them in a blender.
It had turned into a gummy paste, quite unappetizing.
“Oh, it’s good, Dad, I like it!” She could not bear to tell him. She quickly retreats back into the cardboard box, embarrassed for both.
As he walked back into the kitchen, the child heard him say, almost imperceptively:
“This tastes like shit…she didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
She lifted the box slightly above her eyes and kept watching until the hallway swallowed him, then pulled the box back down over her eyes.
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