the bowl, the chopsticks and the coke

Although the kitchen ran like clockwork to the point of perfection, the air that tingled with expenctancy didn't go anywhere. Besides the rings, dings, pops and cracks, there was the occasional whisper of some forgotten memory. Voices drifted by singing their past in little snatches that were not real. The cold brush of something that could not have possibly been there, a shadow in a crevice, the hint of perfume nearby, something that eluded me and his kitchen. This was something that the eye could not see, the ear could not hear, the nose could not smell, the hand could not touch and the tongue could not taste. It laid there like a 6-month-old, hot bowl of Maggi noodle - an old emotion.