Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The landlord's spoons are heavier than mine. They fall through soup with a dull authority, striking the bowl like small bronze bells no one rings on purpose.

In the cupboard, a tin of paprika older than this lease — the label faded to the color of a cheek in winter. Someone's grandmother stood here once and stirred a pot I cannot picture.

The window faces a brick wall that has learned, over decades, to hold the rain like a secret. Late light pools on the linoleum, gold as the inside of a wedding ring.

I crack an egg against a stranger's bowl. The yolk holds its shape for a moment, intact, defiant — then folds into the white the way evenings fold into each other.

Tonight I will wash the plate that is not mine, and dry it, and put it back exactly where it was waiting.