Emma Jackson

There are two stories to this space. There is us, in the evening, making dinner at ten pm. Starving from daily activities. Wearing partial outfits of t-shirts and boxers (be careful not to burn yourself), as we spin in sock feet. Dishes piled up in the sink. When you pass me, cutting red peppers for a meal we make up as we go, you hold onto my hips. Bodies twisting together in the limited space — surrounded by laminate counters and generic white appliances. The spice rack is scoured, multiple containers opened for a dash. Tiny tastes off melted spatulas. We eat our creation seated on cracked red vinyl chairs. Shifting weight, they rock gently, lulling our food into digestion.

In the morning, I am alone. You always sleep longer than me. I plug in the electric kettle you pilfered from your grandfather’s house and fill the dishwasher with the remnants of last night. I drink coffee at the table, setting my mug down on layers of discarded papers, notices and old Vue Weeklys. The yellow lights are left off. Instead, the little sunlight we get in the winter illuminates the space. Restless, I sweep the floors. Onion skins and loose hair collected into tiny piles. I scrub curry stains from the counter and that oily black circle the kettle always leaves behind. When I go, I leave behind the coffee I couldn’t finish in fifteen minutes. A half consumed start for your day.

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