the whole place turning over
and going to sleep without me.
The fridge hums, dreaming.
The oven exhales its last clicks as it cools.
Andrew’s at the sink under one dim light,
rinsing the last glass,
water running,
forearms flexing with each pass.
He's seems more at ease now that the day finally let go of him.
Makes me wonder if this is his favorite part.
After the chaos clears.
After everyone shuts up.
He crosses to the fridge,
pulls out a carton of eggs,
then drifts back to the counter in front of a mixing bowl.
I follow, his socks on my feet slide soundless over cold tile. “Seriously?” I say. “You’re cookin’ again? Who the hell are you?”
He turns mid-laugh?—
and whatever was on his face
dies the second he sees me.
He stares too long,
taking me in like a slow drug:
me wearing his clothes,
damp strands sticking to my neck,
makeup gone.
And he’s wearing a stupid, ruinous look,
his heart spilled all over his face.
He stares back down at the counter, jaw tight,
arms half-raised and confused.
“Wait—nah, you messed me up just now.
“What the hell was I doin’?”
