Transfer

The steam from the sink

makes the window go blind.

I am standing by the fridge,

holding a towel I don’t know

what to do with.

He hands her a dinner plate,

slick with lemon-scented foam.

Their thumbs touch—

a slow, heavy contact

that lasts a second too long

to be an accident.

A single soap bubble

slides from his knuckle to her wrist.

It wobbles there,

iridescent and stubborn,

holding its breath

before it finally breaks.