Gwinyeo in the Guest Room

She drifted into the kitchen like fog with opinions, her sleeves brushing the air, her feet not bothering with things like floors. I was standing there barefoot, coffee in hand, trying to pretend this was normal life and not whatever midnight fever dream I had apparently subscribed to.

“You have too many noodles,” she said, staring into my cabinet without actually opening it.

“You would too if you lived in Florida,” I told her.