There is a raspberry pie in the oven and it’s making the home smell like melted butter. There’s also a crispy-skinned chicken roasting in a creamy murmur of carrots. I’m the one stooped over my dinner plate and I’m sucking on the ice cubes and they make my insides freeze. The smell is warm, and in its warmness, nauseating. I want to eat but I can’t. The guests aren’t here yet and plus, my mom is mad at me for what I did last night. I know that she wants the smells to slip deep enough into my lungs and then she’ll stand before me and say, “There’s frozen food that will go bad if someone doesn’t eat it.” And then I’ll think of how frozen food can never “go bad,” because wouldn’t that ruin the entire purpose of it, anyway? But I know that she’s waiting for me to say that so that she could walk straight to the freezer, jerk open its bluish door and pull out the cold, pink cubes of food. So instead I continue sucking on the ice cubes and the chicken smell grows warmer against my nostrils and I’m about to explode with hunger and a vacancy that pulls me apart with a sharp, practiced delicacy.