Bowl of Cereal

A bowl sat on the counter.

It was a ceramic bowl, sturdy, with some heft. It was decorated around the edge, a blue rim pulled down every few centimetres into points, regular, careful, likely machine-made. The rest of the bowl was white, crisp and clear, and showing all the marks and mars that come with regular use.

The bowl was hardly empty. Inside, cereal was piled high, like a child was looking for a toy – not that those were buried in cereal anymore, but you hear things from your parents, or your grandparents, or the zeitgeist – or it could be that someone was particularly hungry. Maybe they just thought bowls were better for storing cereal; it was hard to tell, just by looking at the lonely bowl, sitting on the counter, quietly holding it contents without any milk or any liquid. Just sitting.

Upstairs, there was a thud, followed by a grizzled, “Damn.”

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