Fridge Space

The house is dark and quiet with the exception of the occasional sleep whimper from little Jack. Juliette is snuggled up against my shoulder; her cheek still red and wet with tear tracks. Every few seconds she hiccups a quiet sob and clutches my side more tightly, as if to ensure that I will never leave her in that dark room alone again. I give her soft curls a caress, letting my free hand linger there as we begin to tiptoe down the stairs by the flickering light of the lamp post on the corner.

We get all the way down the stairs without tripping over the baby gate and go around the corner towards the kitchen. The cold tiles on my naked feet send shivers up my spine. The hardwood floor of the kitchen is a relief. I glance at the microwave clock: 2:16AM. With any luck, I can have her back to sleep and be back in bed by 2:30.

I pull open the fridge door, praying that I had the forethought to leave a bottle of milk ready. I glance around the well-stocked fridge shelves, taking in the lack of fridge space with satisfaction: 4 gallons of milk, 3 packs of fleur de sel butter, a big container of tomato corn chowder, a bowl of cut up strawberries and melon, and a Tupperware filled with cut-up roast chicken. I love a full fridge.

A bottle of milk is tucked up in front of the milk cartons in the door. I grab it and sleepily make my way back up the stairs. I tiptoe into Juliette’s room and settle in on her blue armchair to feed her the bottle. She’s asleep again after a few sips and I settle her limp body back in her crib. I tuck her cuddly pink blanket around her and walk out backwards, closing the door with a soft click.

With a few quick quiet steps I’m back on my side of the bed. It’s still warm. I peek at the clock: 2:26AM. I breathe a sigh of satisfaction, pull the covers over my head, and settle back into sleep as the comforting warmth surrounds me.

This post is inspired by the writing prompt "fridge space" on Sunday Scribblings.