A fridge of one's own

After my trip to the market yesterday, I couldn't bear the thought of putting the neatly stacked cartons of blackberries and svelte triumvirate of darkling eggplants into our fridge. Nor the frilly lettuce nor the dark, leathery avocados. No, not with the momento mori still life, "Ode to the demise of a very bland fruit salad" (among other fecund items) bursting into life (death?) on the back shelf. So, with grocery sacks strewn throughout our living room, I pulled every last item from our fridge (the bread heels in long, plastic bags, the half-eaten lime, the ketchup bottle), knelt on the cold tile floor and scrubbed. Like a pregnant Cinderella. I ripped drawer after drawer after shelf and drenched the entire kitchen with my enthusiastic and deadly use of the sink sprayer and suds (hours after, Mike found water hanging from some far cabinet corner and looked at me with arched brow). Now, having finished, having categorized and placed everything back in at right angles, I can't stop staring. All day I peek in to see the glow, to see the quiet, crimson strawberries and long green cucumbers sitting silently in their cool palace.