The bottle slipped when I was putting it back in the fridge. The mess has been sitting there all afternoon.
I keep going off and sitting in the sunporch and forgetting about it. And as soon as I wander back out to the kitchen, there it is. The immutable fact of salsa.
I open the refrigerator and get a drink of milk, then close the fridge and stare down at the floor.
I know the mess can’t stay there and yet I can’t bring myself to clean it up. I become mesmerized by the intersecting lines of the hardwood floor. It’s like a mental crime scene. I’ve taken photos from several angles.
The past year has been spent waiting for a cue that never comes.
I need somebody to tell me that none of this is real.