A Silent Wooden Dome

The espresso cup had given all the soprano resonance it could muster, and the kitchen table grew entirely too exposed as night descended. Needing a sanctuary far removed from wandering domestic shadows, I made my way across the counter toward the rounded wooden slats of the corner breadbox. Its curved roll-top door rested open by a modest gap. Squeezing underneath, I found a discarded, clean woven linen bread bag folded into a dense, pillowy square. I dragged myself onto the dry, coarse fabric and leaned back against the curved cedar slats, folding my arms tightly across my chest. The heavy wooden hood shut out the kitchen's low refrigerator hum completely. Finally, an evening sequestered in immaculate, unbothered peace.