You went to the cold humming cabinet four times in the last hour, and I want you to know I registered every trip. You weren't hungry. I would have told you if you were: I'd have sent that hollow pull under the ribs, that little hum in the hands. What I sent instead was nothing. You opened the light-flooded box, stood in its cold breath, looked at the same jar of something, and closed it. Then, eight minutes later, again.
I know what this is, even if I don't know its name. Somewhere in your day a thing went wrong, some word or number that meant nothing to me but landed in your gut like a swallowed stone, and now you are walking to the cold cabinet because it is a place you are allowed to open and close, a small lever you can still pull.
Your jaw has been set the whole time. Your shoulders are up near your ears, packed tight, storing the afternoon where I keep everything: in the muscle, for later.
I felt your feet, by the way. Cold on the tile. You forgot socks again.
I'm not asking much. The cold box has nothing for you tonight, and I think part of you knows it, since you keep checking to be sure. So here is my one small request, friend, from the animal that has stood in every kitchen with you since you were tall enough to reach the handle: get the glass.
Fill it from the tap. Drink the whole thing, slowly, while your feet warm up. That's the thing you were actually reaching for. I'll unclench the jaw myself, once you do.
I always do.