In the refridgerator is the following:
Half a jar of peanut butter.
A quarter of a gallon of milk.
Twelve stale crackers, soft enough that they would not snap but gently surrender.
The sharp tang of soiled nappies,
A sheaf of letters pinned to the refridgerator, with big red letters at the top of each of them. On the front one is scrawled in clumsy cursive, FUCK YOU.
There’s a photo, a woman dazed from giving birth, cradling a pink, frail baby and looking up at everything with unfocused black eyes.
A folded card, brought at a copy shop in large packs. WE WILL CALL AGAIN.PLEASE BE IN. FAIRFAX COUNTY CHILD ADVOCATE.
There’s a padlock on the bedroom door.
In the refridgerator:
The musk of bad sex and alcohol filtered through sweat.
An ashtray filled to the brim,sat on a table scarred with the careless anger of lit cigarettes.
A photograph pinned to the refridgerator. A little girl, smiling like she only just learned how to do it, holding up a picture she drew in school that day.
A manila folder, swollen from where it had beer spilled on it. NAVARRO VERSUS FAIRFAX COUNTY printed on the cover. The sebum from where a finger has traced it, night after night, hoping to draw some meaning from it has discoloured the material.
The padlock is gone. Along with the door.