I hear my mother, upstairs, punctuating the flat notes of birdsongs. I hear my father, too. That rankled snore . . . Lips sealed, my parents walk into the kitchen holding hands. They see me. They poke around the cupboards, looking for instant coffee. “Decaffeinated,” says my father sternly. I say, “Coffee isn’t a snack. It’s a drink. It’s a pastime.” They turn their heads and stare at me. I realize I haven’t said anything. They give up and go back upstairs and the catastrophe of their discord recommences, instantly. Inhuman melodies forced from two strangled radios . . . I wait, listening . . . Finally somebody makes an appearance. A stranger. He wears a three-piece suit and a stovepipe hat that scrapes across the ceiling as he strides toward the refrigerator. I engage the Victrola, placing its needle on an old record. The record is warped and produces harsh static before articulating these words: “Welcome to the kitchen. I am your host.
