A 22-inch black cylinder. A standard plastic liner. I keep trying to name what’s strange about it, and the closest I can get is this: it has an odd capacity for migration.
In most homes, I think, such a bin is an anchor. Wedged between the refrigerator and the counter. Kept in the dark, chemical-scented cavern beneath the sink. It has a zip code. A home. We have one of those bins too, somewhere, I’m sure — but it isn’t the one I’m thinking about.
This one is a nomad. I’m not sure either of us decided that on purpose.
