Loosely covered in foil, pale with months of freezer burn, there is a pan of pesto. Most of the space is filled with bags of peaches. I put in a bag of tamales a few days ago.
I have been known to leave parties without warning.
There is a paper shopping bag of fabric scraps and a rice cooker box filled with 35mm camera equipment. There is a dusty painting of an ideology long abandoned, its canvas canted atop large, empty 3-ring binders. There is a light grey jacket on a hanger. Its fabric crinkles.
The object of leaving a party is twofold: to be known for it, and to leave the party. It is to see the stars, and to be seen seeing the stars. The audience is not necessarily there.
What is there, however, is a whole salmon, two-years frozen, kept from smelling, guts kept in. There, too, is a user directory from a computer seven years dead. There are photos downloaded from the Internet. There is a game that may be played but is not. There is a drawer of discarded clothing. There is a box of butter wrappers for greasing pans.
When the party is left behind, it begins again. Events that were not events come under scrutiny. During the party, life outside the party comes alive. Outside, the party comes alive. Neither "outside" nor "alive" are the right words. Perhaps "below" and "up," because whether at or away from the party, there is always a mole.
There is a wooden tortilla press. To use it, plastic wrap must be put between the wood and the uncooked tortilla.