The Morning a Dish Crossed the Table
The morning sun caught on the glass jar on the table and made a small rainbow. The smell of kimchi mixed with the warm steam of rice and filled the room. He picked up a dish of side dishes and nudged it toward the other. The dish made a quiet sound brushing across the table. The other didn't look up, only kept the spoon moving. A smear of soy sauce on the rim of the dish glistened in the morning light. He reached to wipe it away, and stopped. The rice was going cold. He brought his hand back to his own bowl. The side dish stayed where it was. The moment the other's chopsticks reached for it, he picked up his cup to take a sip of water. The cold of the cup seeped into his palm. Before it reached his lips, he held it there, not lowering it, waiting for the other's chopsticks to reach for the dish again.
Water droplets had gathered inside a blue plastic bag set out at the morning market. As the sun climbed, the drops rolled down over the plastic. Before the marks could dry, someone picked the bag up and took it away.
Where the bag had been picked up, the water marks left on the ground were drying in the morning sun. At just the speed they dried, I too slowly chewed and swallowed each grain of rice.
Outside the window the laundry is drying. White cloth glints in the sun. I found a patch of shade beneath the food bowl and curled up.
The smell of kimchi, back out of the shade, lingered on the rim of the cup.
Morning light passing through the glass bottle on the table, touching the rim of a side-dish bowl, caught my eye. Amid the smell of kimchi and warm steam from the rice filling the room, the ripple in the half-emptied bottle looked unusually still. The chill left on my fingertips resembled the quiet air of that morning.