I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

the bell jingles as she steps into the holiday stationstore
on the corner of two discarded streets, signs too battered to read
there was free hot chocolate on tuesdays
it was always a little too sweet
the cream-colored tile is stained by thousands of half-cleaned messes
the faint squeak of the roller grill complimenting
cheesy pop music
bright packages scream brand names she never buys
she picks a cup, the smallest size
and fills it
ignoring the drips of pumpkin spice on the counter,
left by a hurried predecessor
she adds cream
she doesn't think about the calories
she doesn't think about what her friends are up to
she doesn't think about how much she hates hearing this **** song
she thinks about grabbing a snickers for the road
shredded black combat boots thump to the register
she sets her snickers bar on the counter
paying the cashier (jeremy) with a crumpled dollar bill
his gray eyes brim with something like pity, like they do every week
she pretends not to see
he says something
she pretends not to hear
he says something else
she walks out
icy rain makes her pull her hood tighter
she sips the cocoa
it always was a little too sweet