The light in the kitchen always hits the counter at that weird angle around 4:30. It doesn’t really light anything up. It just makes the dust in the air look like it’s heavy. I stood there for a while. Not doing anything. Just watching a fly hit the glass of the window, over and over. I didn’t open the window for it. I just watched it.

The floor was cold. I should have put on socks, but I didn’t. I just stood there. My hands were in my pockets, then they weren’t. I tapped the edge of the granite. Then I stopped. The house was quiet in that way where you can hear the fridge humming, and then you start to think the fridge is actually screaming, just very quietly.

I opened the fridge. I wasn’t looking for anything. I just wanted the light to change. The cold air hit my face and stayed there.

There was a package of salmon. It was sitting on the middle shelf, wrapped in that clear plastic that makes everything look a little bit like a specimen. I took it out. I didn’t really think about what I was going to do with it. I just didn’t want to put it back.

I set it on the counter. The plastic made a crinkling sound that felt way too loud. I left it there. I walked into the living room, sat down, then got back up immediately because the couch felt too soft. Like it was trying to swallow me. Back to the kitchen.

I found a pan. A heavy one. It felt good to hold something that had some weight to it. I turned the burner on. I didn’t wait for it to get hot before I put a little oil in. I just watched the oil start to move, stretching out across the metal like it was trying to find a way off.

I unwrapped the fish. It was cold. Really cold. I touched the skin. It was smooth and slightly damp. My hair kept falling forward into my face, but I didn’t bother pinning it back. I just let it hang there. I put the salmon in the pan.

The sound. That first hiss. It always surprises me. It’s like the fish is finally saying something after being quiet for so long. I didn’t move it. I just let it sit there. I watched the edges turn from that translucent orange-pink to a solid, opaque peach.

I looked in the pantry. There was a jar of honey. I didn’t use a spoon. I just tilted the jar over the pan and watched it drip. Slow. It took forever to actually fall. It pooled on top of the fillets, thick and amber. Then I splashed some soy sauce on it. I didn’t measure. The dark liquid hit the hot honey and started to bubble and foam up at the edges.

The smell started to change. It wasn’t just raw fish anymore. It was sugar burning. Not ruined burning, just… getting dark.

I found a bag of cranberries in the back of the crisper drawer. I don’t remember buying them. Maybe they’ve been there since November. They were hard and round. I dropped a handful into the pan. They didn’t do anything at first. Then, one by one, they started to pop. Snap. Pop. Like tiny little bells. The red skins split open and the juice bled into the honey.

It looked like something was happening. For the first time in three hours, it felt like time was actually moving forward instead of just circling around my head.

I poked the fish with a spatula. It didn’t resist. I flipped it. The side that had been down was dark. Almost black in spots, but sticky. Glistening. I didn’t care if the middle was still a little raw. I just liked the way the colors looked against the black metal of the pan. Deep orange, bright red, dark brown.

I found some chives. They were a little wilty at the ends. I didn’t get a cutting board. I just grabbed a pair of kitchen shears and snipped them right over the pan. Green bits falling into the red and orange.

I grabbed an orange from the bowl on the table. The skin was thick. I used a small grater, the one that’s hard to clean. I just kept grating until the white pith showed. The smell of the orange zest hit the steam and for a second, the kitchen didn’t feel so heavy. It felt sharp. Clean.

I turned the heat off. The bubbling slowed down. The “hiss” turned into a “crackle” and then eventually just… nothing.

I didn’t get a plate. I mean, I have plates. I just didn’t see the point in moving the fish from one flat surface to another. I stood there, leaning against the counter, and ate a piece of the salmon right out of the pan.

It was hot. Too hot. I burned the roof of my mouth, but I didn’t really mind. The honey was sticky on my lip. The cranberries were sour—really sour—and they made my jaw ache for a second.

I chewed slowly. The house was still quiet. The fly was still hitting the window, but I wasn’t looking at it anymore. I was just looking at the steam rising from the pan.

I ate another piece.

I didn’t feel better. That’s not how it works. I just felt like I was standing in a room, eating salmon. And that was enough.

The pan was hard to clean later. The honey had turned into a kind of glue. I let it soak in the sink. I sat back down on the couch, pulled a blanket over my legs, and this time, I didn’t get back up. I just watched the shadows move across the ceiling until it was too dark to see them anymore.

I should probably go buy more oranges tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know.