The refrigerator in your kitchen has its little heart too.
Morning is finally here, the door opens and Claudia hints a hand to grab the milk carton; in her messy waking looks she's at her earnest. It's hot out there. She brings the milk to the breakfast table, closes the door, and I go back to the dark. I know she will return soon.
I hear the others gone, and a different, deliberate Claudia comes again: being alone is, foremost, a distinct rhythm. She has turned to the marmalade; her depression must be setting in. It's getting late and she's not ready yet. The freeze is escaping as she is being careless with the door, and while she stares by the light I realize how brittle is my pretense of guessing her thoughts. Her last one is for me though, as she mindfully closes the door.
I will be in darkness till past noon, when a professional Claudia opens back. I would admire her zest in organizing meals prepared the night before, were it not the same she repeats every day at lunchtime. I realize she is quelled by the commitments of the hour and it's not my time to hope otherwise. I'll see her back in the evening.
She flurries by the door once more and again for dinner, while the recondite sounds of the family decay to near silence around the house. Every night for a brief moment, before being called back to bed, she is for a while about me, lets the freeze reach out to her, and dreams perhaps of journeys to the snow. At this hour she is everything the salesman promised me, completes my every purpose, lets me forget my immobility and my dependence. I live a plenty and fortunate life; even if at the expense of Claudia's freedom, but love has always that dark corner.