Steam

It all started with a pot of Jam. The ingredients seemed simple: sugar, water, lemon and some fruit. According to the recipe writer it was better to use some fruit of the season. There were dates lying around everywhere. Date jam, then. No peeling even though the recipe writer said to peel; life is too short for peeling, or was it feeling? Submerge fruit under water; no room to escape. High heat, bring to boil. A bit of date would float to the surface every now and then, trying to breathe. Not possible. The lid came on and the dates were covered with instant darkness. Whatever floating done was completely fruitless (how ironic!). Wait till they soften; wait till they become only shells of their former existence, then just as they gotten used to their state, change it. Jam seems like a dictatorship. Fish them out; from deep heat to the barren coolness of glass. Steam, a lot of steam. Every date was getting a steaming hot facial, but this facial was to disfigure not to beautify. Sugar in water makes syrup; sticky, hot and hostile, but the steam remains. A squeeze of lemon...drip, drip, drip. Another one bites... the steam? Reduce, deform, mangle and ignore. Add the cool dates to the hot syrup. It almost seems like torture. Then boil until mush. It will take a while, but be patient.

Muted TV voices, doors slamming, distant shouting, cars passing, lights flickering, and more steam, always more steam. Pain up and down, dizziness, headache, and more steam. Not enough heat, more heat. Not mush, not yet, but still more steam.

The steam never ends... always there. It will never go away.