The Kitchen Stove Glows

The green enamel cup sits on the counter, holding cooled milk. I trace the grout lines of the tile floor, the pattern repeating four times down the length of the work table. Ten years ago, I used this spot to cook bread, and the smell of yeast still clings here, faint and sweet. I turn over the brass key; it radiates warmth, a heat that sinks into the palm bone. Something waits for me, a kind attention that settles over the whole room. My breath catches on the knowledge that I am anticipated. I lift my left hand, and the weight in it shifts, now holding the mass of another person's hand. The knuckles are wider than mine, and the skin texture is rough beneath the fingernail.