She always had me do the dishes. I never rejected the idea or asked why she couldn’t do them; I just did them. It seemed to absorb into the atmosphere around us. It tensed my back into a casket I was about to bury my pride in.
She wasn’t a pretty girl by any means. Her hair always seemed unusually kept and her mouth hung open like a mare at a feeding trough. She had a habit of making messes and blaming others for her misfortune. I used to look at her and wonder why I ever agreed to live with her. If anything we were simple roommates that didn’t feel like complicating things.
Things were complicated.
When we first met, we would lie in the middle of the park, legs in knots, blowing eyelashes off mittens. Kisses seemed like hugs and hugs seemed like hellos. We were a blend of symphonic absolutes only we knew. People would look and think we were a muddle of drunks, lollygagging by the ferns, quoting Hemingway, being simpletons without a future.
Perhaps they were right.
I wash the dishes after every meal. I washed them even if she made the mess. It’s a character flaw, I guess. I’m always the nice guy, always blinded by the hope of companionship. If it wasn’t washing the dishes, it was taking out the trash, feeding our cat, or sweeping up the gravel brought in by her boots.
It was a recipe for fragmented dreams and spurned expectations.
She didn’t like when the frying pan, still dripping with oil, stained the carpet. Of course I wasn’t very fond of the mess I had to clean up after walloping her over the head with it. You can’t win everything.
I’ve come to enjoy using paper plates.
Created: Nov 07, 2011Document Media