The evening lacks the sharp edge of proper hunger, and yet the kitchen holds something I cannot name.

Dad opens the refrigerator — that particular sound, the gentle suction, the brief cool air spilling across the hardwood. I am already there, positioned with the precision that comes from years of study. Not close enough to interfere. Close enough to matter.

The block of parmesan emerges. Sharp, aged, the kind that crumbles rather than slices. He peels away the wax, and the smell fills the space between us — salt and time and something that speaks directly to whatever ancient part of me still remembers being useful.

Gus appears from nowhere, drawn by forces he cannot articulate but trusts completely. We form our usual triangle — Dad at the counter, we two on the floor, the mathematics of hope made visible.

The cheese falls in small, perfect pieces. Justice, if justice had a flavor.

#pawscarwilde #cheese