The Hiss

He chopped the vegetables rhythmically, each slice hissing like cool raw fish. Fingers clenched and clumsily tumbled the chunks into an oily pan. The hiss grew yellow, like fur rubbed in the wrong direction. As the body moved about the empty kitchen, the cooked vegetables hissed with echoless, murmuring voices. The faucet hissed victoriously, scattering juice from the knife and grease from the pan. On the bare table, the vegetables hissed quiet ghostly steam on a clean white plate.