orders of magnitude.
Kitchen interior.
Very clean. Unnervingly so — for some.
Concealed lights — blueish glow.
Man enters.
Wearing black slacks, ankle high, no socks.
Leather loafers — casual, no buckle, no tassel.
Black cashmere turtleneck sweater, slim fit, Italian, you’d bet.
No watch.
Man’s holding a salt shaker.
Salt shaker’s looking average.
Carefully puts it on steel counter — operating theatre quality.
Places two palms on counter, lowers head, inhales.
“Fuck,” he exhales. Jaw muscles tighten.
In quick succession: man opens overhead cupboard, grabs small transparent plastic bag, closes cupboard, checks tap for accidental dripping and kitchen floor for any signs of dirt.
He then turns to exit kitchen.