A Recipe Was Left Out. I Am Not, at Present, Implicated.

I shall be brief.

A recipe card was left, briefly, on the low shelf in the kitchen. It described, in some detail, a method for the preparation of a roast chicken. There was, attached to the card, a photograph of the finished dish. The photograph was, by professional standards, very good.

I do not, in the ordinary course, take an interest in literature.

I cannot account for the disappearance of the photograph from the recipe card. I cannot account for the small tear marks along its lower edge. I cannot account for why my breath, in the moments after, is reported by Winnie to have smelled “weird, but in a paper way.” Winnie has a strong nose. Winnie is also, I should note, an unreliable narrator.

I have not been spoken to about it. The Woman has not yet, I think, noticed. The Bald Man has noticed. He has not said anything. He gave me an extra biscuit at supper, which, in context, may have been a comment.

I should like to add, for the record, that I am a quiet boy. Quiet boys do not always do quiet things. There is a precedent here. I refer the reader to my entry “The Cheese (An Apology, of Sorts).” The pattern is, perhaps, becoming a pattern.

I shall not, in future, eat photographs. I should like that to be on the record.