Kitchen

The kitchen hums with the warmth of simmering oils and the yeasty scent of fried cornmeal as a brass pot steams on the back burner. Light striped by louvered shutters falls in dusty columns across the peeling linoleum, catching motes of flour that drift from the masa Julieta presses between her palms. A single bare bulb dangles above the wooden chopping block, its dim glow straining against the gathering shadows in the corner where mismatched plates sit half-drying. The air tastes of burnt plantain and guava, thick with the unspoken weight of promises stretched and frayed.