Another Day Another PB and J

There is a collection of small bottles of scotch whisky by the bedside. They're all sealed and most are still in the dark elegant boxes in which they were commercially packaged. Next to the alcohol cabinet, which doubles as the underwear drawer, is a two foot stack of Economist publications. The top three are still sealed in their white envelopes. Two shoe boxes still bearing the sale tags rest by the small closet filled with shoes. The box edges aren't lined up at all. 

In the kitchen, a pile of pale bamboo cereal bowls crowds the cabinet top. Their corresponding spoons are stuck to them. Pull them off and you'll see their silver bottoms ringed with white lactose remnants. The kitchen garbage is almost full but free of organic smells. 

The only laundry littering the floor is an assortment of colorful feminine socks. They're scrunched inside out. Yellow folders are scattered strategically over the carpet. Stacks of papers, articles, chapter copies, and drafts appear haphazard over the desk and table. Six indigenous films, three comedies, a melodrama, and four book adaptations are lined up on the desk. Beside them a half dozen film books, and four novels written in English but not in England. A mocha tealight is lit in a red and black bulbous holder beside a lighter and an empty pack of menthol marlboros. 

There is one toothbrush on the glass tray. One towel on the rack. One suitcase missing from atop the wardrobe.