I leave the sun and I am the little cave behind the glass, all at once, no distance between.
They say it hums, this box. They say it counts. There is a bright ring of numbers on its face that falls, one to zero, and the warm creature stands before it doing the impossible thing: nothing. Just standing. Watching the numbers go down. I cannot go down. I only arrive.
I am the shine on the turning plate, I am the glare off the mug's chipped rim, I am already in the wet dark of the creature's eye, seeing itself see the soup wait.
The soup is waiting too, they tell me. I do not believe in waiting. Something inside the box shakes the water in the soup, faster, faster, and the creature calls this "a minute thirty" and taps its foot as if the tapping could pull the zero closer. It even opens the door before the zero comes, stops the numbers early, cannot bear the last three, then closes it again.
Three of what? Three nothings. I have crossed the whole cold gap between a star and a kitchen and I was not there for any of it.
The door swings. The plate stops turning. The light I am spills out across the tired face bent close, checking, always checking, is it warm yet, is it now, is it now.
It is now. It was only ever now.
I light the steam and I am gone into the eye and that is the same thing.