Dishes

It is that time of day when the house is quiet, the table is half covered in pots, pans, and tuber ware with food scattered across. The car isn’t in the garage and the dog lies sleeping on the blue blanket.

The sun lies somewhere back there, behind the cloud over those mountains. It makes some nice gold colors on the rocky face of the mountains outside of the window. I guess it is so nice because at this time of year there is a lot of plants and flowers in the back yard so the gold makes it seem sort of dreamlike.

Yeah, I’ll do em I guess. Call it being nice or being bored. Does it matter?

Approaching the sink I am nipped by the denting smell. The eggshells, scraps of mango, carrot peel, and chunks of tofu drip in my fingers.

Oh yes, the trash is under the sink these days.

Drip once, drip twice on the floor.

The water in the frying pan trembles, shaking the crusty flakes of burnt egg. Yogurt and peanut butter connect as spoon and fork fall together into their cage. The green light is on. If it wasn’t for the green stained cup you’d think the dishes where clean. But they are.

What makes spinach leaves stick like that?

When my hand moves up, lifting the metal, then the water comes down. Warm. Like the shell of an old turtle it appears that bowl will work. Honey oozing out of that old bottle in the cupboard, the dish soap colors the quickly forming puddle. That would be gross though, eating dish soap.

Do I really hate washing? Maybe it is drying. Or niether.

The spatula is being rebellious. It failed to flip the omelet and now the egg, cheese, and sprinkles of garlic are at one with the old melted rubber.

The yard is gold. Kids are playing outside. I guess they are playing. A cheerio is stuck to my foot, but only for a moment. The unpleasant crunch follows and the particles of multi grain fall between my toes. The wet rag is comparable to a dead leaf in the gutter during autumn. It smells like the first gerbil cage I ever tended. A perfect ‘U’ shape the rag slowly goes limp as it is exposed to the running water.

Dip, scrub, rinse.

This cheese is impossible. It had better soak.

Dip, scrub, rinse.

The dog continues to sleep. If it wasn’t for the rush of water from the sink I could hear the almost imperceptible voices of the plumbing system upstairs. Oh too hot! Hand down, water off. Holding my breath, biting my lip. Hand up, water on.

Dip, scrub, rinse.

Hidden carrot peels reveal themselves in a container labeled “cottage cheese.” Friendly breadcrumbs and avocado shells accompany the handful to the garbage. Under the sink.

Dip, scrub, rinse.

Ok, time for the cheese.

It comes off easily. Sort of like when you go out to your car early on a winter morning. You see the windows covered in ice (or so you think) and your windshield wiper slides it off on the first try. Just slush. Huh, cheesy slush.

Seven Eleven won’t go for that.

Dip, scrub, rinse.

All in, all done. Just the final bowl. Turning over the large bowl the brown soapy water spills out. The drain drinks it heavily, belching and struggling for breath. A chunk of old thickened tomato soup fights back, resisting the final descent to the inevitable thrashing. Sticking my finger in I force the thing downwards. A flick at the wall and the churning of metal jaws roar. The soup is devoured instantly.

Dip, scrub. And then rinse. My fingers are wrinkly.

It always goes quicker then I expected.

The gold is far gone. Moths flap for the light. Crickets groan their same tasteless note. The dog is off his blanket. The garage is still empty.

Well…

Yes, I go to the wall. In the silence only the persistent cricket and the whispering of the upstairs plumbing seem to desire communication. There really isn’t much to say back. Down goes the hand, the lights are off.