The Kitchen Counter Holds the Tide

The Formica counter smells of lemon polish and stale grease. I stand in the kitchen from ten years ago, next to the chipped green enamel cup. I spoke a phrase—a sequence of syllables—and the sound catches in my throat, hanging there. A glass of water rests on the tile, and the level remains high, impossible. The water surface never drops, the volume holding steady, reflecting the fluorescent tubes.

I reach into the pantry, brushing the dusty index cards that list weights instead of names. The hallway door is ajar. I step through it. The room geometry shifts immediately. The air temperature increases a degree, a warmth I know requires a person standing just out of sight. The hallway continues, a corridor of beige plaster and deep shadows, maintaining its length even though I am no longer there to measure it. It keeps going.