I normally catch the milk before it boils over.
The coffee’s done when it gurgles and starts threatening to sputter. Then I warm milk in a chipped milk-pan that I bought when I moved in. I’d grown fond of a milk-pan in the last house, but it wasn’t mine and I left it there with the mortar and pestle and the small, sharp paring knife I loved to peel apples with.
I am washing up the dishes from last night – thinking about our sex and your freckles when I hear something crackling behind me and realise that there’s milk everywhere.