At her friends' house my mother opened the fridge. There sat my father, crammed betweed the shelves, wearing nothing but grey underpants. Ice had started to form on his back.

My mother looked at my father. My father didn't look at my mother but just a short glimpse. After pondering a while my mother offered my father a plate filled with air and a knife to cut the air with. There was already one plate in the fridge. It was full of my father's words, untouched and jammed against his side.

Eat up now, said my mother.