Kitchen, Winter Evening

Photo by James Balensiefen on Unsplash

This morning’s breath is another try for a bit of flash fiction/miniature narrative. Just like the challenge of writing in second person, the challenge of creating a world in a small space intrigues me. Have I opened just enough of a window to give you space to dream out the rest of the story? Or is this just a frustrating, unfinished bit of something?

Martha leans on the kitchen counter, in the person-sized space between the stove and refrigerator. She hears the opening theme of her husband's favorite procedural drift up from the basement.

A cup of tea. Warm tea. Fragrant with the essence of its country of origin. Some taste of wildness here in her kitchen. That is what she wants.

Martha reaches for the cupboard and stops herself, arm raised, fingers gracefully extended in air. She knows there is only a can of discount Folger's and a stack of wrinkled white filters, reminiscent of the newborn diapers she lovingly stacked in the nursery drawers when their son was born. She lets her arm fall heavily to her side.

Martha closes her eyes and in that solitary darkness, she walks. her feet read lightly over the brand-new tile floor, past the sagging wood of the hallway (next month's project), and out the heavy, glass-paneled front door. She takes off her shoes and socks and stands barefoot in the winter cold grass until her toes ache, then she walks down the walk and into the street, feeling every dip and crack. Her feet go numb and turn blue, as Martha, in the kitchen, leans harder into the countertop.