The Jug from the Sea

I sit here drinking from the jug. From the big carton of 2% milk, that expired yesterday. Still tastes creamy, and sweet. 1 gallon, 3.78 L. Soup is on the stove top. Beans, sauce, onions, garlic whole wheat pasta. Salt and pepper, to taste. My feet are cold, our house is 64 degrees, and I have a humidifier going in my room. The temperature outside is 23 degrees. My feet I would say are somewhere in the middle. I got hungry in the middle of cooking and made myself toast and eggs. He took a swig from the milk, jostling it in its opaque container. The milk is reduced fat. But he is thinking it will not reduce any fat. He weighs 250 pounds. Because of the eggs. Driving in the cold streets this night to the Sea and back. Children burned and brothers died. Makes for a soup night with whole wheat noodles. The heat just flared on, I can hear the muffled roar of the flame in the basement, coming up through the carpeted dining room floor. Carpets make for good flammable material. To the sea and back, scrambling on rocks in the waning warmth of the early springtime New England sun, cozying up in her scarf, with yoga, rugby and swimming for sunset entertainment, the sea air doing good by everyone, with the sun glinting down from the windows overlooking the sea. The same windows shattered by my fist, leaving deep bleeding slices. I can’t stop sneezing - my cold feet. He sipped the milk. The soup is still cooking. Besides I can’t put my feet in the soup. They are not clean. My plate sits next to me dirtied with egg streaks. It might be burning now, burning sauce threatening my home. With a burned lip the soup is deemed ready. First, let it cool.