By dawn the milk bottle on the porch sat with its lid barely raised, as if listening. The cream inside gathered into a small white cloud and practiced a nod no larger than the edge of a spoon.
We asked at the kiosk down the lane. “I used to snatch it the second it chimed,” said a woman warming her hands on a bun. “Today the foam looked at the lid first. I waited. It nodded, the bottle gave one polite clink, and the porridge on the stove actually held still for a sip.”
A neighbor pinned a card to the railing: kindly do not jiggle for a second helping of foam. By evening the bottle came home empty and a little proud, and the whole street had learned the pause.