Innocence

They had opened the refrigerator 72 times that evening. 14 times they had put something into the refrigerator, 21 times they had actually smuggled something out of it and 37 times they had studied the contents of the icey shelves. They opened the big white doors when they took a break or when they passed by on their way to the bathroom. It seemed there was a hole in their stomach and they tried to fill it, partly by looking at exhibited foods and often by breaking little pieces of leftover bread slices and coconut cakes. Pudding desserts were slightly more difficult, fingers were insufficient - you had to take a spoon and manoeuvre between the piled up veggies and soup bowls. At one occasion one of them accidentally dropped the pink icing of a birthday cupcake in the celery soup of the day before.

It was around 9.30pm they became aware of their behaviour. The kitchen was silent, and one of them was standing in front of the cold racks, again. Her hand was resting on the steady white door. From the food treasures her eyes moved to her sister, then back into the big white box. With a firm gesture she slammed the door- closed. They were each other witnesses, and both knew what the other one was thinking. No more late night shows after dinner.