The Last Drumstick
The fridge had been humming all day like it knew something was coming. The kind of hum that seeped into the bones of the house and made even the spoons vibrate in their drawers. Jules stood at the counter under a cone of light that felt poured from somewhere far above the ceiling—like the moon had broken in through the drywall just to watch.
A paper bag slouched open, revealing two eggs cradled in their carton like tiny moons. A loaf of seeded bread leaned against them, covered in sesame freckles that caught the light.
Alex walked in barefoot, shadow trailing longer than it should have, as if his mood preceded him by a few paces.
Jules:
You got eggs.
Alex (pouring water into a chipped glass):
And that bread you like. The one with the seeds that stick to your teeth like memories.
Jules:
I appreciate it.
Alex:
Didn’t ask for appreciation. Just didn’t want you disappearing one skipped meal at a time.
Jules (fingering a bruise on the apple near the edge of the bag):
I’m not disappearing. I eat. I just eat… differently.
Alex (quiet, like a priest admitting doubt):
I’m not trying to track you. I just live here too. I notice things. The fridge talks to me sometimes. Tells me you’ve been skipping dinner again.
Jules (laughs, then stops):
Did it mention the ice cream too?
Alex:
Yeah. It did. Said you left an empty box in the freezer. Said it made it feel hollow inside.
Jules (sighs):
I didn’t mean to. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I finished it while sleepwalking. Or maybe the box ate itself. It happens.
Alex (sits on the edge of the counter like it’s a dock):
Only matters when we use it as proof. Look, I don’t want to fight. Not tonight.
Jules:
Then why does it always end up like this? Like we’re two radios tuned to neighboring stations.
Alex:
Because I’m trying to hold something steady, and you—
Jules (cutting in):
I float. You’ve said that before.
Alex:
No. I mean you drift like smoke. Like maybe you’re looking for the fire you came from.
(A long pause. The fridge hums. Outside, the pecan tree sheds another dreamlike pod onto the roof. A breeze stirs the half-open window. The scent of crushed basil rides in on it.)
Jules:
Can we just reset? Tomorrow? Pretend none of this got tangled in our throats?
Alex:
Sure. Tomorrow. But don’t eat the last drumstick. That’s my midnight offering to the gods of resilience.
Jules (smirking):
I’ll guard it like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.
Alex (grinning for the first time all night):
Even if it talks to you in the dark?
Jules:
Especially then.
(They sit, the air between them lighter now, filled with the scent of bread and a truce unspoken. Somewhere deep in the house, something creaks like it's breathing again.)