Inventory

Flour, ten kilos. Butter, six blocks.
Three lemons that no one remembers ordering.
A container of parsley that’s half wilted but not yet gone.
One pastry brush with a handle darkened by years of glaze.
The smell of yeast in the corners of the walk-in, faint but alive.

Two chefs who haven’t spoken since Friday.
A line cook counting scallops, mouthing numbers like prayers.
One prep list rewritten four times and still incomplete.
A bucket of trimmings no one will use but no one can throw away.
The hum of the fridge, older than half the staff.

The broken mandoline blade someone keeps forgetting to toss.
A damp towel, folded like intention.
Salt spilled on the pass, brushed away but remembered.
One cook’s lighter, another’s secret stash of Maldon.
A tray of mise en place, each container a promise to stay another night.

The menu, rewritten, reheated, revised.
The body, too.
Knuckles raw. Shoulders tight.
A burn that still itches under the bandage.
The smell of smoke that follows home and refuses to leave.

The fridge inventory doesn’t mention the hours.
It doesn’t include what’s been given up — birthdays, sleep, softness.
But it’s all there, somewhere between the vinegar bottles and the prep sink.
Every shift, we count again: the things we have, the things we’ve lost,
and the quiet hope that tomorrow’s list will be shorter.