Orlando stood over the stove, waiting.
The oil was hot. The kernels were in. But it was that in-between time, where nothing seemed to be happening but a sad little sizzle, quieted by the cover. Orlando lifted the pot, swirled it, and set it back on the burner.
These were the moments Orlando liked least. He was a quiet man, by nature, enjoying the restfulness of the silence. But these in-between times, when things should be happening but weren’t, yet, were to him interminable. He wanted the popping to start. He wanted it to finish, so he could melt the butter, add the salt, and head back to the sofa to watch his movie.
The kernels were still sizzling. Orlando lifted the pot again and swirled it. Inside, one of the kernels jumped, popping just a little. Not enough, but a little. But it was starting. Finally, Orlando thought. He kept waiting, the wait over.