Food

Food crumbs and tins on the kitchen floor. You look down at your feet. You revolve, clockwork body shifting your skirt. The mice scurry out, tempted to dance with you. But you are too intimidating and you have started creaking. You don’t smell the waffle burning in the toaster. I walk over and press the button to make it pop. I imagine the carbon taste on my tongue. It is a shame. I look out of the window. It is so perfect and sunny, like a trapped memory. I have to climb through the window to get to it. If I walk around to the back door and let it out of my sight, I will lose it. I walk into the grass. I am in my socks. The sun is warm on my cheeks. It is too blinding to look up. I walk to the end of the garden. I stand there for a long time. There’s no sound but for insects and a faint creaking. Eventually I walk back and climb back into the kitchen window. You are no longer there. I can hear you moving around in another room. I decide to make us some lunch.