Dead Food

I clean out the drain, and there's pasta in the strainer, white elbow macaroni, flabby and quivering as grubs.

In the fridge, there's cottage cheese, milky white, rubbery curds suspended in a white plastic tub with a cheerful red cow grinning on the lid.

A can of peaches sat out on the counter last night, day-glo orange half-spheres floating in thick yellowish syrup.

I wash out the pot my roommate left in the sink, scrubbing it with hot water, tap the strainer into the garbage, and go get ready for bed.