There are always two or three unfinished jars of spaghetti sauce hiding somewhere in the fridge. Behind that carton of pineapple juice bought by mistake months ago. On the door’s lowest shelf between the box of baking soda there when you moved in and the sticky handful of individual serving soy sauce packets. Lying on it’s side, shoved tight under the meat drawer.
A mossy white mold growing, creeping, quickly on the leftover, flavoured, tomato paste; comfortably undisturbed. Something must be done. But it doesn’t really matter if you don’t get around to it today.
There’ll be time tomorrow too.