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. B
ut 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.