Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The previous tenant left a colander, a single copper pan, and in the drawer a handwritten list of groceries for a dinner that never happened — lemons, thyme, something unreadable in blue.

I boil water the way a stranger would, measuring by the kettle's small complaints. Outside, the city performs its dusk: pigeons folding themselves back into stone, a child refusing to come in.

On the windowsill, a basil plant someone has forgiven into brown. I water it anyway. The soil drinks the way any animal drinks — astonished, and without apology.

Night arrives like a guest who forgot to bring anything. I set two plates out of habit, then one, then neither. I eat standing above the sink, the way hunger prefers.

Somewhere a door closes twice. The fridge hums its single vowel. I keep the list. I do not buy the lemons. I leave the kitchen the way I found it — warm, and slightly off its hinges.