Right now, somewhere, beans are burning on a stove. Whoever was supposed to keep watch, was told to add water continuously. They understood. Dozens of times they’d done it, so being told the obvious felt a bit insulting.
Somehow, they forgot—one of those things without explanation.
Subconsciously, they notice it smells different. But they’ve yet to process what that means.
Eventually and suddenly, that unmistakable smell of burnt beans will make their soul shake. For a split second, they’ll feel that sensation of falling backwards.
They’ll run to the kitchen, hoping, praying, bargaining with God, that the beans are alright. That somehow, a few cups of water will make everything fine. That later that day, when people eat those beans, no one will even notice that for a few moments everything felt lost.
They’ll turn off the stove, wave the smoke away and look toward the bottom of that clay pot. Puta madre. Fuck.
They’ll panic over what to do next.
“A new pot of beans?” they’ll think.
“How do I get that smell out?” they’ll wonder.
“What do I say?” they’ll worry.
There will be nothing to say. The entire apartment complex will know about los pinches frijoles.