You are sitting at your white desk - the used one you bought from Facebook Marketplace at a steal price. The one you used for everything except eating, unless you were eating those spicy sweet potato chips you liked- they were allowed. You are scrolling on your old HP laptop- its what, 5 years old now? Older than your sister’s son. You stand up to check the rice cooking. It’s the second time in five minutes- you have an irrational fear of burning food. You take slow steps on the hardwood floor, your thick soft grey socks sliding noiselessly along. You begin to sway your hips- you liked to practice catwalking at random moments, but you walked briskly and purposefully if you were actually headed somewhere. The rice is simmering, still submerged in water and steam. You put the lid back on to silence the pop s and plop s of boiling bubbles. You reach for your sleek iPhone on the kitchen counter- it is slightly wet. You wipe it on the napkin hanging on the oven handle, then unlock it. N
"Writing is its own reward" - Henry Miller