turning the spoon in the kitchen light

I'm sitting at a table I don't recognize, and the silence has weight to it. A friend is there but not speaking, just watching me etch a line into this wooden spoon I don't remember whittling. Outside there's no storm yet, but the light is doing that green thing, you know, and somehow the quiet in the room isn't empty anymore. It's just waiting, patient, like it knows I'm not going anywhere.