i keep stepping in puddles in my kitchen on the floor.
my hair peevishly keeps falling into my face but i refuse to pull it back. i’m a little spiteful that way sometimes.
there are two 1/3-left bags of bread and vegetables that haven’t been put away since three days ago.
spite keeps me from doing that chore, too. didn’t buy’em, not gonna eat’em.
i start to feel like i’m in a cell phone video game with one level that never ends.
the same task and the same buttons, and then after twenty minutes the realization comes that you’re being a jackass and you slam the phone off. it’s not so bad to be on the train alone.
but for the first time in a long time it’s daytime and i am alone in the kitchen i grew up in, mine and not mine at once. and i look outside the kitchen window, a square camera lens flecked with raindrops allowing me to be privy to the moving mist outside.
it’s probably cold there. i consider chugging my coffee and diving into the unmowed yard.
like a wet dog i’d frolic in the wet grass, which wouldn’t take issue with joining onto me.
and then for a while i’d lay belly-up, then belly-down, then scratch myself a bit, then get up again.
at some point i’d come inside because i need to pee, but i’m not really a pet you see.
but i’m still in the kitchen, a box obscured from process. beams of light get lost in here like rubber balls do in children’s rooms or keys fall through gratings in thunderstorms.
that story would take too long to tell, though.
my pan has heated up and i crack an egg in it, wishing for hollandaise and remembering poaching.