Next In Line

Posted: August 14, 2015 in Uncategorized

Stacks of bowls dotted the sink, some inside, some out. Some full of crusted food or stained milk, some licked “clean.” They were the signs of a kitchen lived in. And they needed a desperate cleaning, but between the four young men, the usual houseguests, and the odd date run long into the morning, nobody was willing to put in the elbow grease necessary. Smells came and went, some more putrid than others. The meanest offenders were identified and obliterated, often leaving nearby smells untouched. Occasionally something was so bad that it warranted a scorching of the earth, and everyone would remark on how clean the kitchen looked and how they would all chip in to keep it that way before habits and laziness reared their familiar heads. And so the dishes remained, longer than some of the people on the lease, longer than relationships or jobs, there was always dishes. The dishes made the home what it was.


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