"I guess we should wash the dishes."
It was out now, in the air between us. We'd both been avoiding saying it, and as I looked at the heaped, stacked pile of food-coated dishes, I was more disheartened than ever. I could see mustard, jelly, crumbs, pieces of old vegetables, and what looked like hard pasta fused to a dinner plate. There were only a few butter knives left in the drawer, three forks, no spoons. It was all in the mound.
"It's your turn." Cheerily he threw out his first defense from the living room. I tried to remember what dishes he could be talking about that he washed. The three new glasses I bought at Goodwill last week? That hardly counted.
"No way! I definitely did them last."
The air now filled with the delicacy of crafting this conversation. It couldn't turn into an argument - who fights over doing the dishes? Nor could it seem like an actual disagreement. It needed to be a clearing up of confusion - whose turn had actually come?
"What day did you do them then? Cuz I did them last week, remember? Don't you remember? What day was that?"
"We weren't here last week. We haven't done them since we got back."
Pause. He moved closer to the kitchen door.
"Well, I wish I could remember what day that was that I did them."
We were getting nowhere.
"I guess if neither one of us cares enough to actually do them, they just won't get done tonight." I threw out the ultimatim. I heard nervous laughter in the air before I realized that it was mine. Now that we were invested in the conversation I was hoping that he would step up, now that we had both finally acknowledged the disaster area.
But there was no answer from the doorway, and I saw him going to get his trombone out of the case. I was losing.
"Well, anyway I just don't want to do them right now." Maybe I could wait him out. We were both aware that his mother was coming over tomorrow for the weekend, and I was pretty sure he would want it clean.
"Yeah, don't do them right now." He seemed satisfied by this chronological displacement of the issue, and I had completely lost. I thought of her showing up tomorrow afternoon and viewing the almost moldy pile of mucky dishes that was the overwhelming centerpiece of the teeny kitchen. She would think I was disgusting. And really, she would be right. I would think I was disgusting too. It was my house after all, and they were my dishes.
I turned on the hot water.
The End.
It was out now, in the air between us. We'd both been avoiding saying it, and as I looked at the heaped, stacked pile of food-coated dishes, I was more disheartened than ever. I could see mustard, jelly, crumbs, pieces of old vegetables, and what looked like hard pasta fused to a dinner plate. There were only a few butter knives left in the drawer, three forks, no spoons. It was all in the mound.
"It's your turn." Cheerily he threw out his first defense from the living room. I tried to remember what dishes he could be talking about that he washed. The three new glasses I bought at Goodwill last week? That hardly counted.
"No way! I definitely did them last."
The air now filled with the delicacy of crafting this conversation. It couldn't turn into an argument - who fights over doing the dishes? Nor could it seem like an actual disagreement. It needed to be a clearing up of confusion - whose turn had actually come?
"What day did you do them then? Cuz I did them last week, remember? Don't you remember? What day was that?"
"We weren't here last week. We haven't done them since we got back."
Pause. He moved closer to the kitchen door.
"Well, I wish I could remember what day that was that I did them."
We were getting nowhere.
"I guess if neither one of us cares enough to actually do them, they just won't get done tonight." I threw out the ultimatim. I heard nervous laughter in the air before I realized that it was mine. Now that we were invested in the conversation I was hoping that he would step up, now that we had both finally acknowledged the disaster area.
But there was no answer from the doorway, and I saw him going to get his trombone out of the case. I was losing.
"Well, anyway I just don't want to do them right now." Maybe I could wait him out. We were both aware that his mother was coming over tomorrow for the weekend, and I was pretty sure he would want it clean.
"Yeah, don't do them right now." He seemed satisfied by this chronological displacement of the issue, and I had completely lost. I thought of her showing up tomorrow afternoon and viewing the almost moldy pile of mucky dishes that was the overwhelming centerpiece of the teeny kitchen. She would think I was disgusting. And really, she would be right. I would think I was disgusting too. It was my house after all, and they were my dishes.
I turned on the hot water.
The End.
posted by sarah at 4:37 PM
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