I open the fridge.
I look inside carefully, as if something extraordinary might have arrived without informing me.
Nothing.
I close it.
Seven minutes later, I return.
This is not hunger. Hunger knows what it wants. This is a negotiation between boredom, optimism and one piece of cheese I have already rejected twice.
The fridge light comes on with unreasonable confidence. It presents the same yoghurt, the same vegetables and several jars whose original purpose is no longer clear.
Still, I stand there waiting for inspiration.
Perhaps the ingredients will reorganise themselves.
Perhaps dinner will reveal itself.
Perhaps a tiramisu has quietly appeared behind the mustard.
It has not.
Eventually, I eat something completely unrelated to everything I inspected, close the door and walk away feeling that the matter has been resolved.
It has not.
Because later, I will open it again.
We like to believe that adults make deliberate choices. Sometimes we simply revisit the same options repeatedly, hoping that time has made one of them more interesting.
Apparently, hope is cold, illuminated and lives somewhere between an old lemon and half an onion.
Silvia
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