you are boiling rice—the staccato of grains against bated breath. there is no peace in anticipation. you wait for them to soften, click click, the gas stove heating water. you mimic the sound with your heeled shoes, the faux hardwood floors a sort of plastic that deadens your rhythm. you pace from pantry to pot, letting the weight of your body pull each footstep down, harshly, to remind yourself you are there. the rice is a side dish, you are making street tacos, carne asada. you got the wrong rice, steam from the pot rises. you continue to mimic the clicking, this time pressing knife to cutting board. but it’s not right. the dull • • • stays stuck in your ear. diced cilantro and red onions. jasmine rice and chunked salsa. chipped plates and the lingering sound of a dropped fork.