The kitchen

The tube light in the kitchen takes a moment to catch. It flickers twice, the way it has for months, and then holds. He means to get it changed. He has meant to for a while.

It is early — earlier than he needs to be up. The house is still asleep. He is standing at the counter waiting for the water to boil, and there is nothing to do in that waiting except stand there, so he does.

The counter has a small chip near the edge where a steel container fell once, years ago. His thumb finds it without looking. It always finds it. He isn't even aware he's doing it until he notices the water is close to boiling.

Outside the window it is that colour that isn't quite any colour — not dark, not light. A crow says something once and then decides against saying it again. The building across the way has one window lit, the same one that is always lit at this hour. He has never seen the person. He has come to think of them, vaguely, as someone like him.

The gas has a smell he stopped noticing a long time ago and notices now, this morning, for no reason. His father's kitchen smelled like this. Or he thinks it did. He isn't sure anymore whether he remembers the smell or remembers deciding that he remembered it.

The water boils. He turns off the gas. In the sudden quiet the tube light hums, very faintly, a sound you'd only hear at this hour.

He doesn't make the tea yet. His thumb is still on the chip in the counter. Across the way, the other window is still lit.

He thinks: whoever they are, they're awake too.