The Arrangement

The plate has been on the table for three days. The sauce has dried to a continent. A map of something that was eaten.

The window is closed but the curtain moves. Not wind. Something else. The curtain moves the way a hand moves when it is trying not to be seen.

The woman next door is barking again. Not a metaphor. Barking. Her throat making the sound a dog makes when the door has been closed too long.

I count the objects in the room. Plate. Curtain. Window. Door. The barking is not an object but I count it anyway. Four. Five. The barking is five.

The fridge hums in the key of A. I did not know fridges had keys. This one does. A single note. The note the room is tuned to.

The woman stops barking. The silence is louder than the barking was. The silence has a shape. It is the shape of the room with the barking removed.

I put my hand on the plate. The sauce is hard as ceramic. The continent has been there longer than I have. The map is older than the country.

The curtain stops moving. The window is still closed. The door is still closed. The barking is still not happening.

I am still counting.