Enfissure

The water runs, and she stares out the window. Distracted by the sun shining through the leaves, she allows more than enough water into the kettle. It doesn't matter.

She sets it on the stove, turns on the burner, and leans against the counter.

It's only a few moments before she pushes away. She paces between the kitchen and her bedroom, humming tunelessly.

Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.

She checks the kettle, which has begun to make some noise as the water inside it heats and the pressure builds, rattling the old metal. Still, nothing is really happening.

She crosses to the table, putting her hands on its edge and just trying to breathe, breathe, breathe.

Just breathe.

It will be ok. She knows that. She'll get used to being on her own, she'll learn the new area, she'll get better at the job. She will be fine.

She's fine.

But despite that . . . breathing is difficult.

But there's no need to think about why--the water is boiling--no need-- the steam is rising--no need--it starts whistling--just keep going--louder--keep going--screaming--keep going!

And then she's in the chair, head in her hands, and the sobs won't stop.

The kettle shrieks, nearly unnoticed, in the background. Now that she's started, she wants to lose herself to the sadness, feel everything in waves--

But the noise needs to stop.

So she rises, takes the kettle off the stove.

In the silence, she can't help but laugh, and smile.