The Kitchen's Edge

The green enamel cup weighs exactly nothing in my hand. The floor tile near the pantry smells of ozone and burnt sugar. A thread, dull copper color, pulls taut from the back corner, disappearing into the baseboard crack. I trace the path with my fingertip. The air here holds the temperature of last Tuesday. I mouth the sentence, the one about the garden hose, tasting the words on my tongue before I realize they never left my throat. The path I took through the narrow hallway simply ends at a smooth section of painted drywall. I turn my heel, testing the air. It feels like standing in warm milk. The thread pulls now, tugging a faint, dusty scent of cinnamon.