Writing Excercise

The egg beater, so small and untidy, laying among it all. The flour, that huge bag, sagging under its own weight, flour leaking from its coners and those eggs. All neatly in line, but two-two empty spaces there. The tiles beneath are glossy, and I know will be cold. Egg yoke spilled, just more gloss on gloss. My dishwasher open, the lid hanging loosely. The dishes inside somewhere-behind in the dark. And my fridge. That big mass of stainless steel, but not so stainless after all. There, in the corner, a smudge. Grey meeting black meeting grey.

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