I’m standing barefoot in a stranger’s kitchen in his underwear. Mine is in the dryer. It isn’t light out yet, except for around the shadows of buildings. The fridge is open, and it’s letting cold air out into the muggy kitchen. In July, this is the best time, the coolest and freshest time in the city, which is never completely fresh. The floor is still warm, under my feet, linoleum that is peeling up under the cabinets.
The stranger is still asleep, and hopefully still will be for a few more hours. I’m hungry, and a little hung over from whatever we did yesterday. My stomach is growling, and he has typical junkie food. Leftovers of questionable age, mustard, soy sauce, chocolate syrup, milk- also of questionable age- cereal. I browse through the cupboards, making sure to shut the doors carefully. I dig out canned vegetables, boullion, broth. I rinse and drain spinach, spreading it over white bread, that is a little dry from being left out- but basically salvageable. On its own, it’s terrible, so I add chocolate syrup, and some powdered sugar. It is both crunchy, squishy, and dripping. The taste is- unremarkable, but filling, in semi-sticky gobs.
I’m getting chocolate on the floor, and lick my fingers before looking for a towel, or a sponge. I don’t like to leave traces that I existed, other than unavoidable biological ones. The kitchen sponge is too disgusting to be touched, so I settle for a washcloth from the bathroom instead, using my foot to rub it across the sticky patches. Something tells me that even if I left he spots to dry and harden like old ink, they would go unnoticed.
I used to do this a lot, stand in stranger's kitchens in the very early morning, eating their leftovers. Sesame chicken makes a pretty decent leftover breakfast. So does broccoli beef. This speaks a lot to why I'm not a very picky eater now.