One
Chapter 1 of Spaces · 5 min read
The kettle begins to whistle at 7:43 a.m., which doesn't necessarily mean I'm behind. On any given day it might be 7:42 or 7:44. The variance is negligible, and not nearly as important as it occurring exactly after my slice of whole wheat is jolted up. This gives me enough time to spread a thin layer of butter across the browned surface and grip it on my napkin with one hand, while my other pours the boiling water into the only ceramic mug I own. It is old and contorted, with a worn and sagging aesthetic which pleases me since it matches the texture of my walls.
I eat at the bistro table positioned in the corner, sipping my tea as it grows cold. I stand up once I'm finished, taking exactly three steps to approach my kitchen sink. It's not very deep, though I always handwash the few dishes I have immediately.
Perhaps it was my lack of sleep from the night before or the ever darkening room as we approached the winter solstice. I know I'm getting older and my reaction time inevitably slows. Despite this, I'm still hard on myself for both dropping the dish, and my incapacity to catch it. My perfect 10-inch diameter, glossy white plate - shattered.