Nineteen years and she’s gone. Already? Oh, Vita. Be safe It’s been a week. Rosa’s week’s been crammed. She’s risen early. Early even for Rosa. Driven to Rosa’s in the dark. She’s mopped crannies behind fridges. Scrubbed cupboards. Wiped ovens. Whisked, chopped, stirred. She’s conjured. In her polished stainless steel cocoon, wiry black hair contained in a bright headscarf (it’s Rosa’s look – red patterned headscarf – the same shade on wide, smiling lips), she’s raised many spoons. Tasted. Sniffed. Rolled flavours and textures around her tongue. Thinking, feeling… sweet, sour, bitter, salty. Paprika, smoked not regular. Rich, dark, cacao squares to a vegan chilli.
Busy, busy. When Stella calls in (then Margi, then Donna), to share coffee, Rosa doesn’t have time! Rosa? Ever-whirling Rosa always pauses.
“Is Rosa changing…