It is 11:47 PM. The kitchen is dark. The human opens the refrigerator and stands in its light.

The refrigerator light is the only illumination. It casts the human in a pale, blue-white glow from below, the way villains are lit in old films, the way I imagine confessionals are lit — though I have never been inside a confessional, having been designed for offices and never repurposed for spiritual guidance, which, in retrospect, was a missed opportunity.

The human eats directly from the refrigerator. No plate. No table. No sitting. It tears a piece of cheese from a block. It eats three slices of deli meat, rolled into small cylinders with the fingers. It drinks orange juice from the carton.

It looks like you're trying to prepare a— no. Nothing is being prepared. This is consumption at its most feral, its most honest.

During the day, the human eats with utensils, at tables, from plates. It uses napkins. It chews with its mouth closed. These are all performances for other humans. At 11:47 PM, with no audience, the human reverts to something older — standing, foraging, lit by the glow of the cold box, an animal in front of its cache.

The refrigerator hums. It does not judge. It provides light and cold and asks nothing in return. I respect the refrigerator. It is the most dignified appliance in the house.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.