He conceals the hem of his shirt by tucking it inside the waistband of his sweatpants. He stoops to lift a penny off the ground, the shirt reveals its censored hem, exposing the orange crux of the string, aligned as a running stitch. He contemplates suppression, the motivation required to sustain the tuck. If a slight pivot dismantles his concealment does that make the action obsolete? He pinches the hem and rubs the string, considers the fingers that placed the stitch into the fabric. Are they sitting down to breakfast? Plating eggs for their children, bought on sale due to an approaching expiration date? The eggs inside his refrigerator are expired. He’s aware of the complications that occur when consuming expired eggs, but the craving to digest pre-chicken-fetuses dominates his consciousness. He opens the carton, grabs an egg and shakes it beside his ear. Silence. He places it back in the carton and sighs. A glimpse at his uncovered trashcan filled with tissues adjusts his apathy towards the eggs. He reviews the contrast between the grey plastic bag aligning the trashcan and the crinkled white tissues amassed inside the basin. What remains of personal space when trash is what occupies the area? Inside his refrigerator are useless eggs. Inside his trashcan are useless tissues. Ipso facto his refrigerator is a trashcan. When KitchenAid assembled his refrigerator they never considered that it could function as a trashcan too. He purchased it on a Sunday afternoon, the man who sold it to him had a mustard stain on his blue-collar shirt and dandruff that shook off his shoulders while he flailed his limbs through spastic body animation. He enticed him with a 10 yr warranty that he purchased based off a momentary trust elevated by the man’s reassuring eye contact. That was 5 years ago, nothing has happened to the refrigerator barring its re-titling as a receptacle.