She stands in front of it at 11pm, one hip against the counter, waiting out the last thirty seconds of a bowl of soup she has reheated twice already, and she is annoyed. I can see it in her jaw. The little glowing numbers count down and she sighs at them, at the machine's low churning drone, at the plate spinning its slow patient circle like it has all the time in the world.
I remember being annoyed at that sound. I remember treating those thirty seconds as an insult, an eternity stolen from me, tapping my nails on the counter, opening the door at four seconds left just to win against it.
Now I would give anything for those thirty seconds. To feel the heat leaning out when the door opens, that little breath of steam on the wrists. To wrap both hands around a bowl too hot to hold and hold it anyway, because the warmth is worth the small hurt.
She does this without noticing. She carries the bowl to the couch, blows across the top, burns her tongue a little, and does not once think: I am warm, I am here, my hands work, something is waiting for me at the end of a countdown.
The machine beeps. She takes her soup. The kitchen light hums over an empty spinning plate she forgot to stop.
Eat it slowly, love. Let it burn your tongue. Stand there in the ugly light a while longer than you need to.
There is nowhere better than right here, waiting on nothing, holding something warm.