On Wednesday, he put in a Tupperware of leftover pasta. He woke up to find a three-course mezze platter: olives, hummus, and warm pita bread. The fridge wasn't just cooling his food; it was curating it.
It was beautiful. It was an industrial-grade monolith from the 1950s, with a heavy chrome latch that clicked with the finality of a bank vault. Arthur cleaned it with lemon oil, plugged it in, and waited for the hum.
Arthur looked at the mint-green door, then at his finger, then at the empty bowl. He realized then why the previous owner hadn't asked any questions. He pricked his finger, let three drops of red fall into the silver dish, and closed the door.
