Cough

Fish skins stretched out over a milk carton engulfed within a cloud of flies, chicken bones and egg shells and empty bits of plastic. Together like a family, like a bin bag was a holiday, and the pilot had yet to arrive at the airport. Pale light dashed in through the patio windows, onto the sink, still wet, the washing machine, off. A crowd of plates and bowls and glasses and cutlery lined up, late for the 09:45 to their offices in the cupboards. A loose, small cluster of white froth clung nervously to a droplet on the silver fitting of the sink bowl. The fridges hummed earnestly. The table bore some sorrow, the face of a disgraced celebrity, exclamation marks covered in shiny, streaked fingerprints. Quietly some rockers tinkered on inside the radio, the cord of the landline receiver slightly swaying to the beat. A rustle in the garden, a cat snarling as it ate something out of the dust, beside the detergent lid and spider webs. And beyond? Children, mothers, workers, vans, mopeds, airplanes, door-slams, conversations. Vague constellations of sound we can map, but nothing more detailed than that. And a cough in the kitchen.