The fridge light

At three in the morning the kitchen is a neutral country.

I open the fridge and stand in its rectangle of light, barefoot, like someone turning up at the border without papers.

Inside, tomorrow's things are humming: half a lemon with its little bandage of film, the leftovers in their tub, the milk dated next week.

All so tidy, so sure there will be breakfast, that we will be hungry again, that the house goes on.

I didn't want anything. I close it slowly, and the kitchen goes dark like a theatre. I walk back to bed without lights, the way learned by heart, with the faith of the lemon: someone is keeping me, tomorrow they'll need me.