Mac and Cheese

My feet ache as I shift my weight from the fake tiles of my kitchen.

Our green clock seems to be mocking me as it flashes closer to midnight.

Though my hair is still dripping from my fresh shower I still feel the phantom of grease from work on my skin.

I hate smelling like pizza.

I stand above the oven and my hand stirs what’s in the pan absentmindedly.

The sound of me hitting the pan to shake the sauce off so I can stir the noodles breaks the silence every few minutes.

The house seems to hum around me.

I can hear Hannah’s tiktoks playing softly from the couch.

I can’t help but yawn. 

I cringe at the feeling in my right knee.

I forgot my brace for my shift.

It doesn’t agree with me after I stand on it for twelve hours.

Soon enough the smell is too good for my rumbling stomach to ignore.

I decide the sauce is cooked enough.

I strain the pasta.

I divvy it up into two different bowls.

Mine is piled much higher than Hannah’s.

This is my real meal today.

If you can call it that.

I always give her a little more sauce than she needs.

I bring her bowl to her in her spot on the couch.

She snuggles deeper into her blanket as she takes it.

She puts her phone down and waits for me to sit in my place on the couch.

What are we watching tonight?