When I have something important to say, when the time comes to say it, I either A.) realize that it’s not important or B.) convince myself that it isn’t. Tonight, I decide this matter matters enough.

“You shouldn’t have left the kettle on for so long,” I say looking over the charred base. I turn the burner on for tea and walk out to the living room.

The sun is setting, so half the room is dark. A burnt odor lingers in the recesses of the remaining light. J is sprawled out across the crux of the sectional, the best place to sit. She always takes that spot, leaving me on the short end without a place for my legs.

“Did you see tomorrow’s weather?” she says. “My phone doesn’t show rain, but it probably will.”

A mountain of pillows are piled up on the sofa around her. She stacks the last remaining throw and sinks into the valley of her making. I think about renovating. I think about knocking out walls. I think about open floor plans and demolition and room for me.

“They Photoshop out the green blob on the radar to make people happy,” she says.

“The kettle,” I say as it starts to scream.

She takes out her phone and sets it down. She brings up her tablet and sets it aside. She turns up the TV.

“Every year it rains on my birthday,” she says a little louder.

The kettle, I think.

The meteorologist comes on. I hope he says it’s going to rain. I hope he says every nearby river and lake is going to flood, submerging the city under water. I sit down and curl my legs into my chest. I wait for him to say something as smoke pours into the room around us.