Our lips brush slow.
Then—
BEEP!—BEEP!—BEEP!
It’s distant at first, muffled,
like it’s bleeding through water.
Then the smoke alarm splits the quiet wide open.
Andrew’s eyes go wide. “Ah, fuck.”
I stand at the back door.
Andrew’s lunging for the stove,
ripping the pan off the burner,
metal clanging into the sink.
Oil spits. Water hisses. Steam rises.
No one’s moved from the couch or recliners.
They’re all carrying on,
the whole room agreeing to pretend they saw and heard nothing.
Andrew’s hunched over the counter,
hands gripping the edge,
trying to catch up to whatever just tore through him.
He turns slow, spatula in hand,
eyes landing on Paola.
“Momma.” He doesn’t yell, but he carries a parental disappointment that stings worse. “How many times I gotta say—stay off my burners?”
He motions to the scorched pan.
“You tryna light up the whole fuckin’ block?”
She barely lifts her eyes from the rim of her glass, giving a half-assed wave. “Then don’t leave onions screamin’ to be flipped.” She shrugs. “Don't want me touchin’ 'em? Stay in the kitchen—dove appartieni, eh.”
He lifts the spatula, points it at the couch.
“That over there? Momma’s space.”
Then points it at the floor,
where he’s standing.
“This kitchen right here?
“Andrew’s fuckin’ domain.
