I'm pretty sure our oven is the same temperature whatever

She walks down the stairs and stops midway. She stoops for a moment, in front of the drop in the ceiling, even though she is not tall enough to have to duck for it. Her hair is black and wiry, but it would be hard to mistake the black wire coming from her ears for hair. She finishes walking down the stairs and goes to the fridge, opening it with the same hand that holds an mp3 player. She takes out two plastic bowls – one with rice, the other with chilli – and places them on the kitchen table, eyes on them all the time. She shuts the fridge door and goes back up the stairs managing to never make eye contact with me.