Summerfield: Chapter 8

As I was scrubbing the walls of the kitchen, I wondered why I left in such a hurry. Was it the topic of love or was I just used to the solitary culture of city life: riding silently on the subway, crossing the street without greeting those around me, being anonymous in a sea of people? I shook my head and scrubbed faster to distract myself.

Later that evening, I was finally done. I looked around at the sparkling surfaces of the kitchen. The stainless-steel appliances, though old, were sanitary enough to cook on. Once again, I imagined what would happen in this room in the future. I saw a baker preparing dough early in the morning for all the wonderful pastries and bagels customers would enjoy. I pictured a barista filling up the coffee maker and espresso maker before opening. I looked out of the small kitchen window to see a sunset and pretended it was the sunrise of a weekday. I imagined unlocking the doors as people from the community rushed in to complete their morning ritual of sipping on coffee and chatting before heading off to work. Then I returned to the present, locked up, and went home.