This disorder that Kismet kept working at seemed deeper than a month or two. The pockets of grease in the corners had an ancient, sullen quality. There was a level of despair to the mess that pierced Kismet’s heart. She and her mother maintained a level of cheerful order in their house, so to Kismet, the uncontrolled buildup spoke of personal disintegration. What she found shook her up. Cutlery glued together with molasses. An unopened bag of birdseed devoured by meal moths that had feasted and died within the sealed plastic. Knives rusting away in wet pans. There was an unreality to each
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