I have a kitchen in my head. There's an old woman standing in it.

It's hard to tell what color it is, as everything is covered with a layer of gold film. "Gold" does not mean shiny and expensive. It means the sort of yellow, sort of orange, sort of brownish color that makes everything look as if it's sticky. Every cabinet, every wood veneer panel, every appliance has this...this grime that has long ago smothered the original colors.

It smells of cigarettes and warm plastic, and something else that she does not recognize.

Looking into the room from the front door, there is a large plastic trash bin on the left, with an aged pair of sneakers kicked nest to it, and a plastic grocery bag with a box of light bulbs. The bag and the box are covered in dust. A much stained counter (it was light blue at one time, but now it looks a swampy green) leads to a sink full of dirty dishes, a stove with blackened clumps of mystery stuck to it, and an old refrigerator. The refrigerator has three magnets. One is in the shape of a toilet, (holding a scrap of paper with a phone number), one of a beer can (holding a photo of Heather with her arm around another young woman. They are at a beach, slightly sun burnt, but smiling broadly.), one of a duck (holding a piece of paper that reads "Jolene Friday 4").

Past that is a little more counter space, and then a wall of "wood" paneling. There is a poster of a busty woman holding a beer stein. Below the poster is a table. There is several days of mail on the table, grocery store circulars, and two styrofoam food containers. There is a dead daisy in a jelly glass. On the floor there is an empty paper container that once housed a dozen cans of cheap beer.



The old woman looks as if she is in a foreign land. She wears crisp white pants and a short sleeved blouse with small pink flowers. She has a white hat that shades her face. She wears pale fawn colored driving gloves and soft white shoes.

She is subtly upset by this room. She moves through it without touching anything, she doesn't even want to touch the floor. She clears her throat delicately. She passes into the next room, where she believed she hears snoring.

He is on the couch, lying on his back. He is shirtless and wearing gray sweatpants. The enormous television is on to the weather channel, but the sound is off. The room has stacks of things. Stacks of folded clothes, stacks of magazines, stacks of DVD’s. This room is less messy than the kitchen, but it is darker. The unfamiliar smell is much stronger here. The carpet and couch are worn dark blue, and the dirty curtains are drawn. Between his knees is one empty beer can. On the floor, at the end near his feet are five more.

His right arm has dropped off the end of the couch, and his hand rests between an ashtray (full of stubs of paper, that she assumes are hand rolled cigarettes) and an open pizza box. She can see that there are slices of pizza, loaded with meat and onions, and a cheap steak knife. Used to cut the pizza slices apart. It will suffice.

She bends to the box. She picks up the knife and positions herself so she is standing directly above him.

She calmly sticks the knife into his chest, where his heart is. Sideways, so it goes between his ribs and makes less mess. She pushes it into the hilt. His eyes flutter when she does this, but he is inebriated on beer and lazy from marijuana. They close again.

Althea leaves as quietly as she came.