Post by andyg on Apr 15, 2016 15:41:38 GMT
A short domestic piece this week:
Dish Washing
Colby cleaned off his dinner plate, scraping the remnant peas and mashed potatoes into the crowded garbage can. He turned toward the sink and flicked on a lightswitch. A beam of light illuminated the uneven pile of dishes, an obelisk of neglect extending well above the limits of the sink. Colby sighed and turned toward Anita.
“One day,” he said. “We’ll own a dishwasher.”
“And cable,” she added. “I’m bored with PBS and medical dramas. We should seriously think about getting Netflix.”
Anita rose from her seat at the wooden table, the rusted bars of the iron stool cried as she shifted her weight and then ascended. She picked up her plate and then proceeded toward the sink to stand beside her husband.
“How much is it?” he asked, turning towards the dishes. The paint behind the sink was chipping, resulting in a flock of beige flakes dusting the dirty dishes.
“About ten a month, I think.”
“Not too bad,” he said. “Anything good on today?”
“When Jackson took his first nap I caught the tail end of a medical drama.”
Colby laughed. “Did you learn anything?”
“It was that show, the one with the Lebanese doctor that served in the war,” Anita said. She turned the water on, testing the heat of the stream with her index finger. “In this episode one of the doc’s childhood friends is giving birth, only it’s not going to well.”
“Oh?”
“Near the end, the doctor puts his hand on her arm and said gently, ‘you or the baby will survive. Not both. I’m sorry.’”
“He made her choose?”
Hot water splattered onto the the now soapy dishes. Colby scraped food and grease from the ceramic face of his dinner plate with a cellulose sponge. As he finished each dish, he handed them to Anita who carefully dried each item with a rag.
“Doctors don’t really talk like that,” he said. “They won’t give anybody the time of day. What does she say?”
“We don’t find out until next week,” she said. “The episode cut off right there.”
Colby turned to the hallway, focusing his attention to the unlit room where Jackson rested in his crib.
“What would you have chose?” he asked.
Anite paused and wrapped the dish rag around her hand. “Do you have to ask”
The sink overflowed with soapy water and had begun to flood out onto the countertop. Colby took Anita’s hand and kissed the rag. Out of sight, Jackson began to cry into the darkness of his bedroom.
“My turn,” Colby said. “You rest.”
Dish Washing
Colby cleaned off his dinner plate, scraping the remnant peas and mashed potatoes into the crowded garbage can. He turned toward the sink and flicked on a lightswitch. A beam of light illuminated the uneven pile of dishes, an obelisk of neglect extending well above the limits of the sink. Colby sighed and turned toward Anita.
“One day,” he said. “We’ll own a dishwasher.”
“And cable,” she added. “I’m bored with PBS and medical dramas. We should seriously think about getting Netflix.”
Anita rose from her seat at the wooden table, the rusted bars of the iron stool cried as she shifted her weight and then ascended. She picked up her plate and then proceeded toward the sink to stand beside her husband.
“How much is it?” he asked, turning towards the dishes. The paint behind the sink was chipping, resulting in a flock of beige flakes dusting the dirty dishes.
“About ten a month, I think.”
“Not too bad,” he said. “Anything good on today?”
“When Jackson took his first nap I caught the tail end of a medical drama.”
Colby laughed. “Did you learn anything?”
“It was that show, the one with the Lebanese doctor that served in the war,” Anita said. She turned the water on, testing the heat of the stream with her index finger. “In this episode one of the doc’s childhood friends is giving birth, only it’s not going to well.”
“Oh?”
“Near the end, the doctor puts his hand on her arm and said gently, ‘you or the baby will survive. Not both. I’m sorry.’”
“He made her choose?”
Hot water splattered onto the the now soapy dishes. Colby scraped food and grease from the ceramic face of his dinner plate with a cellulose sponge. As he finished each dish, he handed them to Anita who carefully dried each item with a rag.
“Doctors don’t really talk like that,” he said. “They won’t give anybody the time of day. What does she say?”
“We don’t find out until next week,” she said. “The episode cut off right there.”
Colby turned to the hallway, focusing his attention to the unlit room where Jackson rested in his crib.
“What would you have chose?” he asked.
Anite paused and wrapped the dish rag around her hand. “Do you have to ask”
The sink overflowed with soapy water and had begun to flood out onto the countertop. Colby took Anita’s hand and kissed the rag. Out of sight, Jackson began to cry into the darkness of his bedroom.
“My turn,” Colby said. “You rest.”
