A Dish on the Tiles

I pushed past the kitchen doorway onto the smooth linoleum. You asked if I wanted some food. In the quiet corner by the pantry cabinet, a small ceramic dish rested on a woven placemat. Inside sat a single crisp oat biscuit. I stood firmly before the mat, watching the quiet glow of the ceiling light reflect on the white glaze. Taking two measured steps forward, I lowered my chin and pressed my snout against the rim. The dish slid two inches across the mat with a soft, steady scrape until it met the baseboard. I leaned my flank into the corner and rested.