I stood there, in the middle of my own kitchen circus. Not the kind with confetti and applause, but a tragic solo performance amid crumbs, congealed grease stains, and stopped appliances. One hand clutched the rim of a platter that had once been the stage for a grandiose act: lasagna, three tiers high, a spectacle of cheese and sauce, a headliner on a weeknight. Now? An exhausted performer after the curtain call. The leftovers were stuck like unsold tickets at a long-closed ticket booth. My gaze wandered to the surface. Not to check if the platter was dishwasher-safe—I already knew that—but because something was staring back at me. A vague reflection, caught in the glistening grease and smudged tomato spores. Not a clear reflection, but an abstract portrait of someone who'd stayed on stage too long. Red and white shapes smudged through the hazy sheen, as if the makeup had never quite worn off. And there they were: my eyes. Two lights, once meant for laughter, now half-extinguished. As if they'd already endured too many public glances. My face shimmered from the depths of the bowl like a clown after closing time—except, of course, that's not what I am. Of course not.