Chili and butter in a pan with baked beans, heat not too high. She reached for her bowl and favourite spoon. She knew there would come a point when hot was hot enough. Instant gratification, that was it. Is that why she ate standing up, at the kitchen counter, gazing out of the open door?

The door banged, as usual, against the stoned wedged artistically in the jamb. She did not care. Some people did. It annoyed them. For her, it was a sign of life. It was the outside talking to the inside.

But right now, the beans were ready. She would wash the pan later, she thought, as she switch the gas burner off.

Her mother’s old pressure cooker was heavy. She remembered that.

©2019 Allison Wright
[128 words]