Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The kettle keeps a secret pitch, a low whistle before the loud one— it knows the house better than I do, having outlasted three tenants and the wallpaper's original blue.

In the drawer: a single chopstick, a rubber band browned to amber, a key whose lock has left the city. I arrange them like evidence no one will come to collect.

Morning slides in slantwise through the window's wavy glass, warping the table into water. My hands enter the light and become someone else's hands.

I cook for one and eat standing up, the salt shaker tilted against the wall like a tired commuter. Even the steam rises politely, asking permission to exist.

When I leave, the kettle will resume its conversation with the next stranger. The chopstick will wait. The light will keep practicing its slow trick of turning rooms into rivers.