The Styrofoam lid against the base

The Styrofoam lid against the base.

That squeak. I pressed it closed. In the space

of a second my jaw went tight —

not pain, just clenched, in my own kitchen, at night,

embarrassing nobody but me.

I pressed it again. Same thing. The fee

the body charges for that specific sound

is old. I've paid it every time around

a takeout container, a moving box,

anything shipped in foam. It unlocks

something mean and small. I threw it away.

Hadn't finished. Made the call anyway.

Stood at the trash for a moment. The bag

still on the counter. Something of a drag,

standing there over a bin in the quiet.

The refrigerator ran. I didn't fight it.

Left the bag. The sound still in my jaw.

The rice going cold.