Smoke Fourteen

In the silence of the empty kitchen I unwrap bowls and pair chopsticks. The larger soup bowls feel at home on the shelf above the sink, along with the cannisters of rice, dried onions and pickled lemons. I call up some tulips on Windows and start chopping mint. The glass bowl steams with the heat of the water inside it, and shines translucently each time I dip a sheet of rice paper in its sharded depths, drops of rice rich water falling on the wooden chopping board. The tiny stories of bean shoots, carrot slices and mint folded together, then dipped in the peanut sauce. The stories we told each other that first time in Fitzroy. I eat the rolls with a grim determination, swallowing the almost dry vermicelli painfully. Swigs of ginger beer between bites. I leave the smeared bowl of peanut sauce and the implements in the deep sink. A small chirrup from my wristwatch. The drizzle of radio static in the wireless morning. 10am. Broadcast time.