by Ryan Wong
There is an open window above the kitchen counter. (On this counter is a porcelain bowl, and in this bowl there is a jumble of orange slices. The morning sun, beloved of all things bright and gleaming, slides a pale fingertip down their ribs as if to say: Look, my love. Here we are again, at the intercept of two silent declarations of affection.)
(There is a stovetop beside the counter. Its edges are blistered and blackened from evenings of searing blue heat yet it remains content, for it believes that there is no greater thing than to be an instrument for the most primeval expression of love.)
A few feet away from the window and the counter is a dining table made of wood. (The moon, as she appears when the sun takes its leave, gazes from outside the window. The table, like the stove, bears the weight of pots and plates, the spills of soups and sauces. It does not feel burdened in the slightest by this.)
(And the moon, as she watches, thinks to herself that she would crumble beneath gravity if it meant she could watch this sight forever. That she is a mirror reflecting not the light of the sun, but of the three tiny, luminous humans as they eat a meal prepared with a heart even she cannot comprehend the scale of.)
*
(Away from the window, the counter, the sun, the moon, the fire and the wood is a box, stashed in a shadowed corner. In this box is a single apple, carrying within its core the near unbearable weight of rot, inevitable to no one but itself and the dark.)
((Still, a soft smile finds its way to its lips as the glint of porcelain catches its eye. The scent of citrus beckons with a tender, ephemeral hand.))