kitchen

The kitchen had an unpleasant smell-as if someone had been simmering desperation until it was thicken up into a bittersweet syrup. It reminded me of late spring, bloody streets covered in brown and muddy magnolia pedals, crushed and stepped on mercilessly. But it didn't take me too long to get used to it.

So I sat on the kitchen floor next to a chair made of four crackers. Small and pretty, but a chair that noone can sit on. I felt like a goldfish in a small bucket waiting for a winner to scoop me up with a tiny paper net at a night festival, my eyes fixed on my sides, not even allowing a glimpse of the night sky. There I was, waiting for some assurance that there is an exit. A ghost would have been fine. But only the refrigerator made a noise making ice.