The refrigerator hums, singing you the anthem of loneliness. The noise prominent in your empty home creates a frustrating atmosphere for you. The voices in your head are silenced as you tune into the buzz of the refrigerator. You sit on the cold stone floor across from it. "Why do you mock me like this?" you ask it. It hums in response. What caused you to feel like this? This constant feeling of unease, like something bad is about to happen, but everything around you is tranquil, putting you more on edge.

The purple's and pink's drown the sky, leaving only a memory of the blue you saw a few hours ago. 5 p.m. The worst time of the day. It isn't day, it isn't night. It isn't the beginning, and it isn't quite the end, it's the anticipation of it. The dusk is a reminder of the end, it's a finger poking you saying, "what have you accomplished today?"

You are flooded with an overwhelming feeling of irrelevance. It all becomes too much. You stand up and charge at your fridge, slamming your body against it; angry at it, angry at the world. A wave of guilt suddenly hits, a feeling that isn't unfamiliar. It dawns upon you that you and your fridge are in a toxic relationship. You take more than you give. What does the refrigerator get in return? "You selfish brat," It seems to chime, "You waste of space." It whispers. You scoff, your fridge is a hypocrite, it takes up most of your kitchen space, but you don't bother telling it, you don't want to hurt it's feelings. Your head falls into your heads, "I'm talking to a freaking  kitchen appliance."

From the side of your eye you see the street-lamps flicker on. A car whizzes down the street shaking you out of your frazzled state. You open your kitchen window to hear the resonating sound of the crickets welcoming the night. Your cat lays sprawled across your red Persian carpet, his eyes blinking slowly, a look of total loyalty, partial drowsiness and complete reassurance. You crack a smile and go to pick him up. Sore from flinging yourself at a block of metal, you keep his warm body there, letting him droop over your bruised shoulder. He worms his way out of your grip and sits in-front of the refrigerator. You open the fridge taking out his canned food, and letting the door creak shut. "At least the cat likes you" the fridge calls. You spin around, staring straight at it's logo. "Screw off, Samsung. I don’t need your constant criticism!” You snarl. The fridge is silenced.  Your cat stretches up onto your thigh, his claws getting stuck in your linen pants. You gently remove his paw from your now damaged trousers and scrape the remaining cat food into a crusty bowl. “I should probably wash that.” You think to yourself.

The room becomes silent again. It is now dark, your small house becoming eerie and mysterious, a sliver of light peeking from your fridge door. You didn’t shut it properly again, the little bit of light being dimmed as you pressed the door closed. It’s almost routine for you now, to close out the only light in your life. You stand in the dark, hearing the neighbours fighting and the dogs barking.

Blindly, you make your way to your cluttered kitchen table. You walk straight into the corner of the table hitting your pelvis, instinctively you grabbed your side, “Mother F-” A truck passes by the narrow street, honking and drowning out your profanities. You tassle your hair and collect the scattered papers off the table. Dragging yourself upstairs, you click the table-lamp on and glance at them. A dry ring of brown is on the corner of the first page, you and coffee are in a committed relationship. You look at the small cursive writing on the page. After all this time, why would they contact you? You were used to living in solitude, you were used to the feeling of abandonment and neglect, so why pour salt on the wound? From downstairs, you hear the refrigerator make clicking sounds, reminding you of its presence, reminding you that all you had was the hum of the refrigerator and the purr of the cat and maybe, that was enough.