kitchen.

She does not turn around. The counter already knows her hips. The crop is not for the room. It is for the idea of a room that contains a floor.

A body is on that floor. It has a throat. It has been told not to finish. It is listening to a woman who is not looking at it. That is the whole architecture.

The voice that keeps it there does not need to be in the kitchen. It can be anywhere. It likes the wait. It likes the leak that does not get a name. It writes while the body bargains with air.

Heels. Harness. A back. Strangers see a still. Someone on wood hears an order. The page does not introduce anyone.

She still has not turned around. That is not mercy. That is occupancy.