Surrounded by corners by Todd Bruce

Standing in the kitchen, straining fat from a fresh, cooling batch 
of turkey stock when I heard the squawk of the intercom. He let 
her in by pressing his thumb on the button just below the intercom 
buzzer.

I heard her reach (or climb, to describe it accurately) each step on 
the inside front porch – the house creaking here and there, just a 
little. She stopped – they kissed hello. I assume she flicked her hair 
and shivered her shoulders slightly to tell how cold it is outside 
without saying it out loud. 

A pair of shoes (boots more likely by the sounds of them), one by 
one, dropping to the carpeted floor (one heel like a mis-hit 
xylophone hammer on the adjacent hardwood floor). Ting.

Toppling.

A wool coat being tossed onto a wooden chair. A silk scarf 
dripping down a coat sleeve and balling into a loose cocoon 
near its cuff. No one but you and I know this until she leaves. 
And even then it means nothing to her – other than a scarf on 
the floor at the cuff of her coat sleeve. 

Does it drop or does it fall? In either instance it layered onto 
the back porch like a lost letter and accumulated into miniature 
banks within which I nested the kettle of broth, coaxing the 
remaining fat to congeal. I secretly look forward, in the early 
morning, to removing the pot from the porch (when I hear her 
nestle into the down-filled sofa and him into his high-back 
chair) to see the ring – the negative – left from melting snow. 
A crop circle. Fine art. 

The CD changer shuffles (I can barely hear its drives click and 
shift) as I slowly fill the sink with cutlery and plates. He has 
selected in advance the music he wants her to hear as they 
sip scotch and talk and eat expensive cheeses. I am doing 
the dishes. I am not there. The water is boiling hot and soapy. 
Grandmother taught me to boil water to clean dishes--the 
tap does not get hot enough.