Made Too Much

She left it outside my door. Tupperware,

still warm against my palm. A Post-it note

stuck to the lid, four words: Made too much. There

in the hall I stayed longer than you'd devote

to most things, just holding it. She lives

down the hall. We've nodded four times in two years—

the arrangement you reach with someone who gives

you your distance and takes theirs.

Inside I peeled the Post-it off with care.

One corner damp from the condensation.

I read it twice, looking for more there

than there was. No more. No explanation.

Made too much. I ate the soup standing.

Her handwriting plain, unhurried, the kind

you get from someone not demanding

a reaction. Just a fact. I find

the note still on the counter. Three days now.

Yellow square, slightly curled at one edge.

I don't know her name. I don't know how

to throw it away. The condensation's ledge

of white on the laminate.

Four words.