The milk was the last item remaining in the otherwise empty refrigerator. It was white, and cold, and had been there a very long time. Neither of them could remember buying milk––but there it sat, conspicuous and alone beneath the flourescent light, perched high on the top shelf. It was the last of its kind.
"So... we have to drink the milk today."
"It's in the fridge."
David walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. The milk was there, and he placed it on the counter between them. "When was the last time we bought milk?"
Talia could not remember. "I didn't buy the milk."
"Well, niether did I."
The milk stood transfixed and immutable between them. It looked solid and heavy and white, like a natural extension of the walls and kitchen counter. Tiny beads of condensation collected along the outside of the jug.
"Fine, you don't have to drink the milk."
It was skim milk. He knew because of the pink label which, as far as he could tell, was not yellowing with age. He took this as a good sign.
"I thought we were going to dinner."
They looked at each other.
"Whatever," she said, "I'll just buy new milk and we can drink the new milk." The silence settled around them like fine particles of dust. In the distance David heard a car pulling out onto the street, on its way to someplace important and far, far away.
"It's really not such a big deal," he said. "We don't have to drink it."
"Yes, I know."
"It's been there a long time. It probably isn't good anymore."
"It's fine, David. Niether of us wants to drink the milk."
Talia walked out from behind the counter and through the door of the kitchen. David looked at the half-full gallon of milk in front of him. He could not remember buying milk. It stood on the counter, cold and ominous and alone, blending with the solid impenetrable whiteness of the walls and countertops of the kitchen.