She walks out of the room, away from him and the trajectory of the shards of that revolving argument gathering up a plate of half eaten fruit and an inside out sweater as she goes. She enters the kitchen and casts her eyes around the room. She turns the sweater right side out and tosses the remains of the fruit into the compost. The copious piles of plates, crusts of bread and cold coffee ahead of her propel her forward. The sink itself is piled high with pots from the homemade pasta and porridge that had been planned hours in advance yesterday while she half listened to a webinar.
The heat of the earlier argument dissolves in dishwater. It eases off in flakes as the clear water rinses away the sediment of earlier decisions. The next meal starts to be assembled in her mind's eye, oh yes, we have that salmon in the fridge. We should use that , it will taste good with the leftover bits from yesterday's vegetables- maybe with a sauce? no maybe not, it will just get wasted.
The kitchen gradually starts to get reset. The space is primed and cleaned to make way for prepping the next meal. As each surface once covered in stagnant water and swollen crumbs, makes way for air and nothing.
By the time the salmon starts to steam, the words that scorched her skin have already sloughed off and fallen to the floor to be swept up with the vegetable scraps and seeds. They are heaved into the compost to return and be replanted. The old fruit births new seeds to be cast about, landing hot right back onto her chest from the air. The ventilation is poor in this house. Keeping up with the dust is a battle she feebly fights.
As the salmon emerges hot from the oven, she places it next to the brightly coloured vegetables on the plate and briefly enjoys the clean surface upon which the fresh juices glisten before gradually congealing.
He's right. She does care more about having a clean kitchen more than he does.
Comments
Post a Comment