The Heat of the City

I lie on the black and white tiles of the kitchen floor on my side so that my right cheek is halfway between a black tile and a white tile. My right eye is forced closed by the pressure from the floor on that side of my face, but my left eye looks outwards, towards the refrigerator. It is open slightly, and the scant modest cool air is wafting from the open vegetable drawer right onto my head. Once in a while a bead of sweat drips from my hair onto my nose or into my eye or onto the floor, and my left eye darts upwards, landing and focusing on the half-empty pint of heavy cream that sits in solidarity on the top shelf of the refrigerator.

E. walks up behind me. I can tell it's her because she and I are the only ones home. Her footsteps stop inches from my head, and I watch above me as her torso bends over towards the refrigerator.

"We're out of food," she says, looking straight down at my head. Then she yawns, leans back up, and walks away.