By the time Maya got home, Daniel had already set a pot of water on the stove, though he had forgotten to turn on the burner.

“Bold strategy,” she said, dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

He looked at the pot, then at the cold stove. “I was letting it think about boiling.”

Maya laughed and opened the refrigerator. They had agreed to stop ordering takeout during the week, partly to save money and partly because the recycling bin had become embarrassing. She found half a bunch of broccoli, a lemon, and a plastic container of grated Parmesan.

“Pasta?” Daniel asked.

“Pasta,” she confirmed.

While the water heated, Daniel cut the broccoli into uneven florets. Maya stood beside him, mincing two cloves of garlic. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate every movement.

“Behind you,” she said, carrying the cutting board to the stove.

“Opening drawer,” he warned.

They had learned these phrases after six months of bumping hips and stepping on each other’s feet.

Daniel salted the water and poured in the penne. Maya heated olive oil in a skillet, then added the garlic and broccoli. The garlic began to brown too quickly, so Daniel handed her a mug of pasta water without being asked. She splashed some into the pan, and steam fogged her glasses.

“Good save,” she said.

He tasted a piece of pasta. “Two more minutes.”

They drained it together, mixed everything in the skillet, and squeezed the lemon over the top. Daniel added red pepper flakes to his bowl but not hers. Maya grated extra cheese over both.

They ate at the small table near the window, with unopened mail pushed to one side. Daniel told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Maya described a customer who had returned the same lamp twice.

Halfway through dinner, she pointed her fork at the skillet. “We made enough for lunch.”

Daniel nodded. “Assuming neither of us gets ambitious.”

Afterward, he washed while she dried. They packed the leftovers into two containers, labeled them with their initials as a joke, and put them side by side in the refrigerator.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Ben came in from walking the dog, carrying a small paper bag from the corner market.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got green beans.”

“That works.” Maya opened the refrigerator. “Did you remember the lemon?”

Ben pulled one from his jacket pocket with a small flourish.

Their apartment was on the second floor of a brick building in Ohio, with a kitchen just wide enough for two people if they paid attention. Maya filled a saucepan with water while Ben trimmed the beans over the sink. When she stepped behind him to reach the olive oil, he shifted sideways without looking, a movement they had practiced through three years of living together.

They had planned on chicken, but neither had remembered to thaw it.

“Eggs?” Ben suggested.

Maya checked the carton. “Four left. We should save two for breakfast.”

They settled on fried eggs over couscous, with green beans on the side. Ben found a skillet and asked if she wanted the eggs runny. Maya said yes, then changed her mind after seeing the date on the carton.

“Medium,” she decided.

While the couscous steamed, Maya tossed the beans in oil, salt, and garlic powder. Ben washed the cutting board and told her about a meeting that had gone fifteen minutes over. She told him the landlord had emailed about inspecting the smoke detectors on Thursday.

“Can you be here?” she asked.

“I can work from home that morning.”

They ate at the small table by the window. The eggs were slightly firmer than either of them preferred, but the lemon brightened the couscous, and the beans still had some snap.

Ben reached for the hot sauce. “This is better than ordering pizza.”

“It’s cheaper than ordering pizza,” Maya said.

“That too.”

Afterward, she packed the leftover couscous for lunch while he rinsed the plates and loaded the dishwasher. They debated whether the skillet needed soaking, then left it in the sink with warm water. The dog waited beneath them, hopeful and patient, until Ben dropped a single green bean into her bowl.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a box of couscous. Ben came in from walking the dog, carrying a paper bag from the corner grocery.

“They were out of green beans,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I got broccoli.”

“Broccoli’s better anyway.”

“You said that last week, then ate around it.”

“I was tired last week.”

Ben let the dog off the leash and began cutting the broccoli into uneven florets. Maya filled a saucepan with water and turned on the burner. Their apartment kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other.

“Behind you,” she said, carrying the cutting board to the stove.

He stepped aside and opened the refrigerator. “Chicken tonight or save it?”

Maya checked the date on the package. “Tonight. We can do eggs tomorrow.”

Ben heated a skillet while she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and the last of a jar of garlic powder. The smoke detector had gone off twice that month, so he opened the window before adding the chicken to the pan.

While it cooked, Maya stirred the couscous and packed leftovers from the previous night into a container for her lunch. Ben rinsed the broccoli, then spread it on a sheet pan with oil and salt.

“Did you pay the electric bill?” he asked.

“Scheduled it this morning. Did you email the landlord about the faucet?”

He paused. “I drafted it.”

“That means no.”

“I’ll send it after dinner.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with the dog lying between their chairs. The chicken was slightly dry, but the broccoli had crisp edges, and Maya added hot sauce to everything.

Ben reached for a second spoonful of couscous. “This is good.”

“It’s from a box.”

“Still good.”

Afterward, he washed the skillet while Maya loaded the dishwasher. She wiped the table, handed him his phone, and nodded toward the unfinished email. Ben sighed, dried his hands, and pressed send.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of pasta. Mark came in from walking the dog, clipped the leash to its hook, and opened the refrigerator.

“Broccoli or salad?” he asked.

Lena looked at the broccoli, which had begun to yellow at the edges. “Broccoli. We’ll forget it again otherwise.”

Mark filled a pot with water while Lena cut the broccoli into uneven florets. Their apartment kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit: he stepped aside to let her reach the trash; she shifted the cutting board when he needed the salt.

They had planned to make chicken, but it was still frozen.

“We could microwave it,” Mark said.

“That always makes the edges weird.”

He checked the pantry. “Pasta, broccoli, and that jar of pesto?”

“Good enough.”

While the water heated, Lena put the broccoli in a skillet with olive oil and garlic. Mark grated the end of a block of Parmesan, stopping twice to pick up pieces that fell onto the counter. They talked about the rent increase mentioned in the landlord’s email and whether they should renew their lease. Neither wanted to decide that night.

When the pasta was ready, Mark drained it, saving a mug of cooking water because he had seen someone do that online. Lena stirred in the pesto and added a splash from the mug. The sauce loosened and coated the noodles.

“Look at you,” she said. “Professional.”

He divided the pasta between two bowls, giving her more broccoli because she liked the crisp pieces. They ate at the small table by the window, with the dog lying hopefully between their chairs.

The meal needed more salt, and the broccoli was slightly burned, but they both had seconds. Afterward, Lena washed the skillet while Mark packed the remaining pasta into a container for lunch. He wrote “THURSDAY” on a strip of masking tape, though they both knew it would be gone by morning.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a package of chicken thighs. Traffic still hummed on the avenue below their apartment, and the dishwasher from the night before had just finished beeping.

“Four hundred degrees?” she called.

Eli looked up from the table, where he was sorting the mail into two piles. “That’s what we did last time.”

“Last time they were a little dry.”

“They were safely dry.”

Maya laughed and set the oven to 375. Eli carried the junk mail to the recycling bin, then joined her at the counter. They had planned to make tacos, but neither of them wanted to chop toppings or wash extra dishes. After a brief negotiation, they settled on roasted chicken, boxed couscous, and the green beans that had been in the refrigerator since Saturday.

Eli trimmed the beans while Maya rubbed the chicken with olive oil, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, stepping aside automatically when the other needed a drawer. When Maya dropped a green bean, Eli picked it up and held it over the trash.

“Rinse it,” she said.

“It touched the floor.”

“For one second.”

He rinsed it.

While the chicken cooked, Maya answered a text from her sister, and Eli packed leftovers from lunch into a container. He asked whether she wanted to visit his parents next month. She said yes, but not the weekend of her office retreat. He opened the calendar on his phone, and they found another date.

The couscous was ready too early, so Eli covered the pot with a dish towel. Maya tested the chicken with the thermometer they had bought after an argument about doneness. At 7:18, they carried their plates to the small table by the window.

The beans were slightly wrinkled, and the couscous had clumped, but the chicken was good. Eli reached for the hot sauce. Maya told him to taste it first.

He did, then added hot sauce anyway. They ate while discussing rent, a new show, and whose turn it was to take out the trash.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice packet. Mark came in from the hallway carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something trying to sell us better internet.”

“We already have internet.”

“Apparently not good enough.”

He washed his hands while Lena opened the refrigerator. They had planned to make tacos, but the ground turkey was still frozen. After a brief discussion, they settled on rice bowls with eggs and whatever vegetables needed to be used.

Mark started the rice. Lena sliced half an onion, a red pepper, and the last of a bag of spinach. She handed him the onion when her eyes began watering.

“You always say you’re immune,” he said.

“I say I’m usually immune.”

He took over chopping while she heated oil in the large skillet. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other. When Mark reached for the salt, Lena stepped aside with the pan. When she opened the silverware drawer, he moved toward the sink without being asked.

They sautéed the vegetables with soy sauce and a little garlic. Mark fried two eggs, breaking one yolk by accident.

“You get that one,” Lena said.

“I made it. I should get the good one.”

“That’s not how consequences work.”

They divided the rice between two bowls, added the vegetables, and placed an egg on top of each. Mark gave Lena the unbroken yolk anyway.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, someone walked a beagle past the apartment building, and a delivery truck blocked half the street. Lena mentioned a meeting scheduled for eight the next morning. Mark reminded her that his sister might visit Saturday.

After dinner, Lena packed the remaining rice into a container for lunch. Mark washed the skillet while she wiped the counter and put away the soy sauce.

“Tea?” he asked.

She looked at the clock. “Only if it’s decaf.”

He filled the kettle, and she turned off the kitchen light.


By the time Maya got home, Daniel had already put a pot of water on the stove, though it had not yet begun to boil. He stood at the counter in his work clothes, chopping broccoli into uneven pieces.

“Those stems are good too,” Maya said, setting her bag on a chair.

“I know,” he said. “I’m peeling them.”

She looked at the pile. “You’re thinking about peeling them.”

Daniel laughed and handed her the vegetable peeler. While she trimmed the stems, he salted the water and opened a box of pasta. They had planned to make tacos, but neither of them had remembered to thaw the chicken.

“Pasta is faster anyway,” Maya said.

“And cheaper than ordering something.”

They moved around their small kitchen with the practiced caution of people accustomed to sharing limited counter space. Daniel dropped the pasta into the boiling water. Maya heated olive oil in a skillet and added the broccoli, then stepped back when it hissed.

“Garlic?” she asked.

“Definitely.”

“You’re chopping it.”

He found three cloves and minced them while she stirred the broccoli. They discussed whether to add red pepper flakes. Maya wanted them; Daniel had a morning meeting and worried they would upset his stomach. They compromised by sprinkling flakes onto her bowl later.

When the pasta was done, Daniel scooped out a mug of cooking water before draining it. Maya added the garlic to the skillet, and together they tossed in the noodles, Parmesan, and enough water to make a thin sauce.

They ate at the table by the window. Daniel told her about a confusing email from his manager. Maya described a customer who had returned the same lamp twice. Halfway through dinner, she got up for more cheese and brought back the mail.

“Electric bill,” she said.

“I’ll pay it tonight.”

“I paid the internet.”

He nodded. “Then I’ve got this one.”

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Daniel washed the skillet. She dried it and put it away, then turned off the kitchen light as they carried their water glasses into the living room.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Behind her, the front door opened, followed by the thump of Daniel’s backpack hitting the bench.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, loosening his tie.

“The plan was tacos,” Maya said. “But we’re out of tortillas.”

Daniel looked over her shoulder. “We have rice.”

“We always have rice.”

“That’s why rice is dependable.”

Maya handed him a red bell pepper and an onion. “Fine. Burrito bowls. You chop.”

While Daniel washed the vegetables, Maya set a pot on the stove and measured rice and water. Their apartment kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate every movement.

“Hot pan,” she warned, stepping behind him.

“Knife,” he replied, turning toward the cutting board.

They paused, then laughed and switched places.

Daniel sliced the pepper while Maya opened a can of black beans. He preferred the onion in thin strips; she liked it diced. After a brief debate, they compromised by cutting half each way, which Daniel said defeated the purpose of consistency.

“It’s Tuesday,” Maya said. “Consistency can wait.”

She seasoned the beans with cumin and garlic powder. Daniel sautéed the vegetables, adding too much salt and then trying to correct it with lime juice. Maya tasted a pepper.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“That means it’s salty.”

“It means I’m hungry.”

They assembled their bowls at the counter: rice, beans, vegetables, shredded cheese, salsa, and the last spoonful of sour cream. Daniel divided the sour cream carefully.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, traffic moved steadily through the wet street. Maya told him about a meeting that should have been an email. Daniel described a printer jam that had occupied three people for twenty minutes.

Halfway through dinner, he nodded at her bowl. “Rice was the right call.”

Maya took another bite. “Don’t make this a precedent.”

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya rinsed the dishes. He washed; she dried. By seven-thirty, the kitchen was clean, and the apartment smelled faintly of cumin and onions.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Daniel came in from walking the dog, unclipped the leash, and hung it by the door.

“What do we have?” he asked.

“Half a bag of spinach, chicken thighs, and that rice from Monday.”

Daniel washed his hands and opened a cabinet. “We could make bowls.”

“That was my thought.” Maya pulled out the chicken. “Can you start the rice?”

While he spooned the cold rice into a saucepan with a splash of water, she trimmed the chicken and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit. When Daniel stepped back from the stove, Maya slid past him to reach the oil. He opened the window before the pan began to smoke.

They discussed whether the spinach was still good. Daniel picked through the leaves, dropping two wilted ones into the compost bin. Maya found a lemon in the fruit bowl and rolled it under her palm.

“Use the whole thing?” he asked.

“Half. We’ll want the rest for something else.”

As the chicken cooked, Daniel set two bowls on the small table and filled water glasses. Maya stirred the spinach into the hot pan until it softened, then squeezed lemon over it. Daniel tasted the rice, added salt, and turned off the burner.

They assembled dinner together: rice first, then spinach, then sliced chicken. Daniel added hot sauce to his bowl. Maya carried over the soy sauce but decided she didn’t need it.

They ate with the dog lying between their chairs. Daniel talked about a meeting that had run late; Maya described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice. Halfway through, they traded bites to compare seasoning.

“Yours is hotter,” Maya said.

“That’s generally how hot sauce works.”

She nudged his foot under the table. Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya washed the pan. Neither of them mentioned dessert until they found two cookies in the freezer.


By the time Maya got home, Daniel had already put a pot of water on the stove, though it was barely warm.

“I forgot to turn on the burner,” he said, looking up from the cutting board.

Maya dropped her keys into the blue bowl by the door. “Strong start.”

It was Tuesday, and both of them had worked late. They had agreed by text to make pasta instead of ordering takeout again. Daniel sliced a zucchini while Maya changed out of her office clothes and came back wearing sweatpants and an old college T-shirt.

“What sauce?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.

“There’s half a jar of marinara.”

She held it up to the light. “That’s not enough.”

“We can add the canned tomatoes.”

Maya found a dented can in the pantry. Daniel opened it, and she poured it into a saucepan with the remaining marinara. He added garlic, then reached for the red pepper flakes.

“Not too much,” she said.

“I know.”

“You always say that.”

He shook in a small amount and handed her the jar for inspection. She nodded.

While the pasta cooked, Maya tore lettuce into a bowl. Daniel found a cucumber that was still usable except for one soft end, which he cut off. They debated whether the salad needed cheese and decided to save the last of the feta for lunches.

Daniel drained the pasta, and Maya stirred it into the sauce. The zucchini had browned unevenly, but it smelled good. They carried their bowls to the small table near the living room window, moving a stack of unopened mail to the floor.

For a few minutes, they ate without talking. A bus sighed at the corner outside.

“This is better than delivery,” Daniel said.

“It’s cheaper than delivery,” Maya replied.

He pointed his fork at her. “Not the same thing.”

She took another bite. “It’s also better.”

Afterward, Daniel washed the pots while Maya packed the leftovers into two containers. She labeled one with his name as a joke, though they both knew he would take whichever one was closer in the morning.


Maya got home first and found a text from Ben: **Leaving the office now. Need anything?**

She opened the refrigerator. Half a bunch of broccoli, two chicken breasts thawing on the bottom shelf, and a container of rice from Sunday. **Soy sauce,** she replied. **We’re almost out.**

While the oven heated, Maya changed into sweatpants and cut the broccoli into uneven florets. She tossed them with oil and salt, then slid the pan onto the middle rack. The chicken went into a skillet with garlic powder and pepper. She was washing the cutting board when Ben came in, carrying his laptop bag and a small paper sack.

“I got the low-sodium kind,” he said, setting the soy sauce on the counter. “Was that right?”

“It’s soy sauce,” Maya said. “We’ll survive.”

He loosened his tie and leaned over the skillet. “Smells good. What can I do?”

“Rice. Microwave. Maybe add a splash of water so it doesn’t turn into gravel.”

Ben spooned the rice into a bowl, sprinkled water over it, and covered it with a plate. While it heated, he checked the broccoli and announced that it needed “at least five more minutes.” Maya disagreed, so they compromised on three.

They ate at the small table by the window, with the mail pushed to one side. Ben added too much soy sauce and tried to redistribute it by stirring his rice into the chicken. Maya gave him some of her broccoli after he admitted his portion looked small.

They talked about whether to renew their lease. Ben liked the neighborhood; Maya hated the upstairs neighbor’s treadmill. Neither wanted to move enough to start looking.

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers into one container for Ben’s lunch. He washed the skillet, pausing twice to let the water run hotter.

“You cooked,” he said when she reached for a towel. “I’ve got it.”

Maya wiped the table anyway. Then she checked the oven, turned off the kitchen light, and followed him into the living room, where they still had to decide what to watch.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I checked the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He found it behind a bottle of salad dressing and held it up. “You’ve defeated me again.”

They had been living together for eleven months, long enough to know where most things belonged, but not long enough to agree on where they should belong. Daniel preferred condiments grouped by height. Maya put them wherever they fit.

Tonight’s dinner was rice, chicken, and whatever vegetables needed to be used before grocery day. Daniel rinsed the rice and measured water into the small pot. Maya cut the chicken into strips, then washed the knife and board before handing them to him.

“Can you do the broccoli?”

He trimmed the dry ends while she heated oil in the skillet. They talked over the hiss of the chicken: her meeting that had run late, the strange noise his car had made that morning, whether they should call the landlord about the bathroom faucet.

“We should call,” Maya said, adding the peppers.

“You said that last week.”

“So did you.”

Daniel nodded. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

When the rice was ready, he fluffed it with a fork. Maya tasted the stir-fry and added more soy sauce, then a spoonful of honey after Daniel said it seemed salty. They ate at the small table by the window, their knees occasionally touching underneath.

The broccoli was slightly overcooked, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot, but neither complained. Daniel got up for two glasses of water. Maya divided the leftovers into containers for lunch.

Afterward, she washed the skillet while he dried the plates. He moved the soy sauce to the refrigerator door, top shelf.

“There,” he said. “I’m learning.”

Maya smiled without looking up. “We’ll see tomorrow.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have half a bell pepper, eggs, and three kinds of mustard,” she called.

From the living room, Daniel closed his laptop. “There’s chicken in the freezer.”

“Frozen solid.”

He came in and opened the cabinet beside her, as if it might contain a better answer. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which shelves belonged to groceries and which had become storage for good intentions. Daniel found a box of spaghetti behind a bag of lentils.

“Pasta?” he suggested.

Maya checked the produce drawer again. “With pepper, spinach, and those cherry tomatoes before they go bad.”

Daniel filled a pot with water while Maya set a skillet on the stove. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. He chopped the pepper; she rinsed the spinach and picked out two wilted leaves. When Daniel sliced a tomato and sent it rolling onto the floor, Maya caught it with her slipper.

“Still good,” he said.

“Wash it.”

While the pasta cooked, Daniel grated the last of a block of Parmesan. Maya sautéed garlic in olive oil, then added the vegetables. The smoke alarm gave one warning chirp.

“You used too much heat,” Daniel said, reaching for a dish towel to fan the ceiling.

“You distracted me with the floor tomato.”

They drained the pasta, saving a mug of cloudy water because Maya had seen chefs do it online. Daniel poured in too much, so they simmered the sauce another minute. It turned out fine.

They ate at the small table by the window, with seltzer for Maya and a beer for Daniel. Outside, someone dragged trash bins to the curb.

“This needs salt,” Daniel said.

Maya handed him the shaker. “Tomorrow, you’re figuring out dinner.”

He nodded, already opening the grocery list on his phone. “Tacos?”

“Put tortillas on the list.”

He did, then reached across the table for another helping.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the rain that had blown in through the kitchen window. Maya stood at the counter, slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We have half a lime,” he announced.

“That’s enough for two people.”

“It’s mostly rind.”

She looked over. He held up a hard, wrinkled wedge between two fingers.

“Fine,” Maya said. “Use vinegar.”

They had planned tacos because they were quick, though neither had remembered to thaw the chicken. Daniel put a can of black beans in a saucepan, added cumin, then shook in too much chili powder. Maya noticed but said nothing. She scraped the peppers and onions into a skillet, and the oil snapped loudly.

Daniel set two plates on the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. “Move the electric bill?”

“We paid it.”

“Then why is it still here?”

“Because you said you wanted paper records.”

He considered this, then placed the envelope on top of the microwave.

While the vegetables softened, Maya warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. Daniel grated the last of a block of cheddar. Some fell on the floor, and he crouched to pick it up before their cat could reach it.

They assembled the tacos at the table: beans, vegetables, cheese, jarred salsa, and a spoonful of yogurt because they were out of sour cream. Daniel tasted his first one and reached for his water.

“You were right about the chili powder,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“I was trying not to.”

They ate with the window cracked, listening to tires hiss on the wet street below. Maya told him about a meeting that had run long. Daniel described the strange noise his car had started making. They agreed he would call the mechanic in the morning and she would pick up groceries after work.

When they finished, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftover beans into a container. There was only one tortilla left.

“Lunch?” he asked.

Maya tore it in half and handed him a piece. “Dessert.”


Maya got home first and found a text from Ben: **Train delayed. Twenty minutes. Don’t wait to start.**

She set her bag beside the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. Half a rotisserie chicken, a head of broccoli, and a container of rice sat on the middle shelf. She considered ordering takeout, then filled a pot with water.

By the time Ben came in, shaking rain from his jacket, Maya was cutting broccoli into uneven florets.

“Need help?” he asked.

“You can deal with the chicken.”

Ben washed his hands, then pulled the meat from the bones while Maya dropped the broccoli into boiling water. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced adjustments: Maya stepped aside so he could reach the trash; Ben closed a cabinet door before she bumped her head.

“Rice bowls?” he asked.

“That was my thought. We still have that peanut sauce?”

Ben checked the refrigerator door and held up an almost-empty bottle. “Technically.”

He scraped the sauce into a small bowl and thinned it with soy sauce and warm water. Maya tasted it, added lime juice, and tasted it again.

“Better,” she said.

They reheated the rice and chicken together in a skillet. Ben wanted to add hot sauce; Maya reminded him that the peanut sauce was already spicy. He put the bottle on the table anyway.

They ate on the couch because the kitchen table was covered with unopened mail and a folded laundry basket. Maya tucked her feet under her and switched on the local news, keeping the volume low.

“The rent notice came,” Ben said between bites.

“I saw. We should talk about it Saturday.”

He nodded. “Not tonight.”

“Definitely not tonight.”

The broccoli was slightly overcooked, but the sauce made everything taste intentional. Ben went back for the last spoonful of rice and divided it between their bowls without asking.

Afterward, Maya carried the dishes to the sink while Ben packed the remaining chicken for lunch. He washed the skillet; she wiped the counter. Then they stood together in the kitchen, deciding whether there was enough energy left to sort the mail.

There wasn’t.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Ben came in from walking the dog, unclipped the leash, and found Maya holding two bell peppers.

“Red and yellow, or just red?” she asked.

“Both. The yellow one’s getting soft.”

Maya pressed her thumb against it and nodded. “Good catch. Can you cut them?”

Ben washed his hands while Maya set a skillet on the stove. Their apartment was small enough that opening the dishwasher blocked the refrigerator, so they moved around each other by habit. He took out a cutting board; she reached over him for the olive oil.

They had planned to make chicken, but neither had remembered to thaw it. Instead, Maya opened a can of chickpeas and rinsed them in a colander. Ben sliced the peppers and half an onion, pausing once to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

“Fan?” he asked.

“It’s too loud.”

“The smoke alarm is louder.”

She turned on the fan.

Ben cooked the vegetables with cumin and salt while Maya poured boiling water over the couscous and covered the bowl with a plate. She found a nearly empty container of feta in the refrigerator and shook it.

“Still good?”

Ben smelled it. “Probably.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He tasted a crumb. “It’s good.”

While everything finished, Maya filled two glasses with tap water and cleared unopened mail from the table. Ben divided the couscous between two bowls, then added the vegetables, chickpeas, and feta. Maya squeezed half a lemon over both.

They sat across from each other, knees almost touching under the table. The dog settled between their chairs.

“This is better than ordering pizza,” Ben said.

“It’s cheaper than ordering pizza.”

“I said better.”

Maya took another bite. “It needs hot sauce.”

Ben got up to retrieve it. When he returned, she had moved the larger share of peppers into his bowl and taken more feta for herself.

He noticed, but only smiled and passed her the bottle.


By six-thirty, Leah had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Marcus came in from the hallway carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Coupon for a dentist we don’t go to.” He opened the refrigerator. “Are we still doing pasta?”

Leah nodded toward a box on the counter. “Penne, jarred sauce, green beans. I don’t have energy for anything ambitious.”

Marcus filled a pot with water while Leah shook the beans onto a sheet pan. She added olive oil, salt, and too much pepper, then used her hands to toss everything together.

“You always say I use too much pepper,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“That was my concentrating face.”

While the oven heated, Marcus found half an onion in a plastic container. He chopped it and added it to a skillet. Leah opened the sauce, rinsed the jar with a splash of water, and poured that in too.

“My mother does that,” Marcus said.

“It gets the last of the sauce.”

“I know. She also saves every jar.”

Leah glanced at the crowded cabinet. “We save some jars.”

They ate at the small table by the window. The green beans had browned at the edges, and the sauce tasted better with the onion, though neither of them said so immediately. Outside, someone walked a terrier past the building, tugging it away from a discarded takeout container.

Marcus asked whether Leah could pick up laundry detergent the next day. Leah reminded him that he would be near the grocery store after his dentist appointment.

“Right,” he said. “The dentist I actually go to.”

After dinner, Leah packed the remaining pasta into two containers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet and pot, leaving them upside down on a towel because the drying rack was full.

They debated running the dishwasher, decided it wasn’t full enough, and turned off the kitchen light. The unopened electric bill remained beside the fruit bowl, waiting for morning.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have half a cabbage, three eggs, and something that might have been cilantro.”

From the living room, Daniel closed his laptop. “There’s rice.”

“There’s always rice.”

“That’s why rice is reliable.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to know who had bought the groceries and who had forgotten to take the chicken out of the freezer. Tonight, it was Daniel’s turn to cook, but Maya was hungrier and less patient. They settled on fried rice with cabbage and eggs.

Daniel rinsed the rice they had cooked on Sunday while Maya sliced the cabbage into thin strips. She complained that the cutting board slid across the counter, and he dampened a dish towel and placed it underneath.

“Better?”

“Yes. Very professional.”

He heated oil in their largest skillet. Maya added the cabbage too quickly, sending a few pieces onto the stove. Daniel picked them up with tongs while she cracked eggs into a bowl and beat them with soy sauce.

They disagreed briefly about garlic. Daniel wanted four cloves; Maya said they both had morning meetings. They used two.

When the cabbage softened, Daniel pushed it to one side and poured in the eggs. Maya stirred them until they were barely set, then added the cold rice. Daniel took over with the spatula, breaking up clumps while Maya searched the refrigerator door for hot sauce.

They ate at the small table beside the window, their knees bumping underneath. Outside, a delivery truck blocked part of the street, and someone walked a terrier in a yellow sweater.

“The cabbage is good,” Maya said.

“It needed more garlic.”

“It absolutely did not.”

Daniel reached for the hot sauce. Maya slid it toward him before he asked.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers into one container for her lunch. She filled the skillet with soapy water and wiped down the stove, finding one last strip of cabbage near the burner.

“Professional,” Daniel said.

Maya flicked a drop of water at him, and he handed her the dish towel.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the rain that had followed Maya home from the bus stop. She hung her damp jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and found Ben standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have half a pepper, three eggs, and something in a container I don’t trust,” he said.

Maya peered over his shoulder. “That’s rice from Monday. It’s fine.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Exactly. Fried rice.”

Ben closed the refrigerator and started rinsing the pepper while Maya changed out of her work shoes. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them, though cooking still required negotiation. Ben liked to follow recipes. Maya preferred to use whatever needed to be eaten.

She set a skillet on the stove and chopped the onion. Ben sliced the pepper, then found a bag of frozen peas behind a carton of ice cream. He held up both.

“Peas now, ice cream later?”

“That seems responsible.”

While the vegetables softened, Ben broke the eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a fork. Maya opened the rice container, smelled it, and offered it to him for inspection.

“Approved,” he said.

They pushed the vegetables to one side of the skillet and scrambled the eggs in the empty space. Some rice spilled onto the stove when Maya tipped in the container. Ben swept the grains into his palm before they burned.

“Soy sauce?” she asked.

“Not too much.”

She poured until he said, “That’s too much,” and then laughed because it was already done.

They ate at the small table by the window, their knees occasionally bumping underneath. Ben talked about a difficult customer at work. Maya told him their landlord had emailed about a water shutoff next Tuesday. They agreed to fill the kettle the night before.

The rice was a little salty, but the peas were sweet, and neither mentioned ordering takeout. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben washed the skillet. Outside, tires hissed on the wet street. Inside, they debated whether one episode of their show would become three.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had blown in through the kitchen window. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We have half an onion,” he announced, holding up the plastic-wrapped piece. “And something that used to be cilantro.”

“Throw the cilantro away,” Maya said. “Keep the onion.”

They had planned tacos, but neither had remembered to thaw the chicken. Daniel suggested ordering pizza. Maya pointed to the unopened carton of eggs and said they could make breakfast tacos instead.

“Faster and cheaper,” she added.

Daniel pulled out the skillet. While it heated, he diced the onion, pausing twice to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. Maya warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs until each had a few brown spots. She liked them soft; he preferred the edges nearly crisp, so she left his on longer.

Daniel scrambled six eggs with salt, pepper, and the last spoonful of salsa from a jar. Maya grated cheddar and opened a can of black beans. The can opener slipped off the rim, and Daniel took it from her, only to struggle with it too.

“It’s not me,” she said.

“It’s definitely the can opener.”

They ate at the small table by the window, each assembling tacos differently. Maya added beans, eggs, cheese, and hot sauce. Daniel skipped the beans and folded two tortillas around too much filling.

They talked about the leaking faucet, whether they could put off calling the landlord, and a wedding invitation that had arrived that afternoon. Daniel checked the date on his phone. Maya said she would ask for Friday off so they could drive instead of fly.

After dinner, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftover beans for lunch. She wiped the table, handed him a dish towel, and switched off the kitchen light.

On the couch, they divided the last tortilla, still warm, and watched the rain bead against the glass.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Marcus came in from walking their dog, shook rain from his jacket, and hung the leash on its hook.

“What do we have?” he asked.

“Chicken thighs, half a zucchini, and this.” She held up the box. “The couscous expired last month, but I think it’s fine.”

Marcus inspected it with unnecessary seriousness. “Dry pasta doesn’t know what month it is.”

“It’s not pasta.”

“Then we’re taking a risk.”

While Elena heated a skillet, Marcus trimmed the chicken and patted it dry. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen of their rented duplex, opening drawers and stepping aside without much discussion. Elena sliced the zucchini into uneven half-moons. Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika, then added more paprika after she told him he hadn’t used enough.

“We’re almost out,” he said.

“I put it on the list.”

The list was a magnetic pad on the refrigerator, crowded with items in both their handwriting. Marcus added olive oil, though the bottle still had an inch left. Elena turned the chicken and opened a window when the skillet began to smoke.

As the couscous absorbed hot broth, Marcus cleared mail from the small table. He set aside an envelope addressed to both of them from the electric company.

“Bill went up,” he said.

“Heat,” Elena replied. “We’ll look at it after dinner.”

They divided the food between two bowls. Marcus gave Elena the larger chicken thigh; she transferred some of her zucchini to his bowl because he had taken less. They ate with the dog lying under the table, hopeful and alert.

The chicken was slightly overcooked, but the couscous was good. They talked about Marcus’s meeting, Elena’s commute, and whether they could wait until Saturday to buy groceries.

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet while she dried it. Neither mentioned the electric bill again, but before leaving the kitchen, Elena lowered the thermostat by two degrees.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a zucchini, and more mustard than any household needs,” she called.

From the living room, Ben closed his laptop. “There’s rice.”

“There’s always rice.”

“That’s why it’s dependable.”

They had lived together in the small Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Maya handled the chicken while Ben rinsed rice and measured water into the dented saucepan. Their orange cat, Walter, appeared at the sound of the refrigerator opening and sat between them hopefully.

Ben found an onion in the pantry. “Still good?”

Maya pressed a thumb against its papery skin. “Good enough for a Tuesday.”

He chopped it while she sliced the zucchini and seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. The cutting board rocked on the uneven counter, so Ben steadied it with a folded dish towel. Maya heated oil in the skillet and added the chicken. It hissed loudly enough to interrupt their conversation about whether the car needed new tires before winter.

“It’s pulling to the right,” Ben said.

“You always say that on roads that slope.”

“We’ll check Saturday.”

When the chicken browned, Maya moved it to a plate. Ben cooked the onion and zucchini in the same pan, then stirred in a spoonful of mustard and a splash of milk. The sauce looked questionable at first, but after a minute it thickened.

They ate at the little table by the window, knees occasionally bumping beneath it. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the zucchini had gone soft, but the chicken was good.

“This is repeatable,” Ben said.

“With less mustard next time.”

Walter rested his chin on Maya’s foot. Ben gave him a tiny piece of chicken after she pretended not to notice.

When they finished, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben filled the sink with soapy water. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin to the curb. Inside, they argued mildly over which podcast to play while they cleaned.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Marcus came in from walking the dog, hung the leash by the door, and opened the refrigerator.

“Chicken?” he asked.

“Unless you have a better idea.”

He moved the carton of eggs aside and found two chicken breasts thawing on the bottom shelf. “No better idea.”

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Marcus trimmed the chicken while Lena started rice in the small saucepan with the dented lid. She measured the water, then added a little more because the last batch had been dry.

“Not too much,” Marcus said.

“You complained last time.”

“I made an observation.”

She gave him a look and turned on the burner.

Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. The skillet hissed when he added it. Lena poured the green beans onto a baking sheet, tossed them with oil and garlic powder, and slid them into the oven. When she set the timer on her phone, she noticed a message from their landlord about a maintenance visit.

“Can you be here Thursday morning?” she asked.

Marcus considered it while washing the cutting board. “I can move my first meeting. Tell him after nine.”

While the chicken cooked, Lena cleared unopened mail from the table. Marcus checked the thickest piece with a thermometer, then let the meat rest. The rice was slightly soft, but neither mentioned it.

They ate at the table, with the dog lying between their chairs. Marcus added hot sauce to his chicken. Lena stole two of his crispier green beans.

“These are better than the rice,” she said.

“The rice is fine.”

“It’s mushy.”

“It’s comforting.”

Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers into one container for Marcus’s lunch. He loaded the dishwasher, fitting the skillet in at an angle. She wiped the counter and turned off the oven light.

“Tea?” he asked.

She glanced at the clock. “Only if it’s decaf.”

He filled the kettle while she answered the landlord.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of the onions Maya was chopping. She stood at the narrow kitchen counter, nudging the pieces into a bowl with the flat of her knife, while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We have half a pepper,” he announced.

“Is it still a pepper?”

He examined the wrinkled red skin. “Philosophically, yes.”

“Put it in.”

They had planned tacos because they were quick, though neither had remembered to thaw the ground turkey. Daniel set the sealed package in a bowl of cold water and changed out of his work shirt while Maya opened a can of black beans. When he returned in an old college sweatshirt, she handed him the can opener.

“This one’s fighting me.”

He worked it around the lid, then rinsed the beans in the colander. Maya heated oil in their largest skillet. The onions hissed when they hit the pan.

Daniel sliced the pepper and found a jar of salsa in the back of the fridge. “Mild or medium?”

“Medium. It’s Wednesday.”

He laughed. “That explains nothing.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

While the turkey browned, Maya broke it apart with a wooden spoon. Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs until their edges blistered. One caught slightly, and he waved it under the smoke detector.

“Don’t you dare,” Maya said, looking up.

It stayed silent.

They carried everything to the small table by the window: skillet, beans, salsa, shredded cheese, and two cans of sparkling water. Daniel assembled his tacos too full, as usual. The first one split over his plate.

Maya slid him a fork without comment.

Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. They ate while comparing their days—her difficult client call, his delayed project, the landlord’s unanswered email about the bathroom fan.

“Should we call again tomorrow?” Daniel asked.

“You call. He likes you.”

“He doesn’t like me. I just sound tired.”

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Daniel washed the skillet, scraping at the browned bits. She dried the plates and leaned against his shoulder for a moment before putting them away.


Maya got home first and set her keys in the blue bowl by the door. The apartment smelled faintly of the coffee they had left in the pot that morning. She opened the refrigerator, studied its crowded shelves, and texted Daniel: **Tacos? We have tortillas and half an onion.**

His reply came while she was taking off her shoes. **I’ll grab ground turkey and cilantro. Need anything else?**

**Limes. Maybe salsa.**

Daniel arrived twenty minutes later carrying a paper grocery bag against his chest. He kissed Maya’s cheek, then held up a jar of medium salsa.

“You said you didn’t like the hot one last time.”

“I said it made dinner more stressful than necessary.”

He laughed and began chopping the onion while Maya browned the turkey in their largest skillet. The burner clicked twice before catching. She added cumin, chili powder, and salt without measuring.

“More cumin,” Daniel said.

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

She handed him the jar, and he shook in another spoonful. While the meat cooked, Daniel rinsed the cilantro and pulled off the wilted stems. Maya warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs and stacking them under a clean dish towel.

They ate at the small table beside the window. Daniel assembled each taco carefully—meat, onion, cilantro, salsa, lime—while Maya put everything on at once and folded the tortilla before it tore.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. We decided to schedule another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

She nudged his foot under the table. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner, and someone in the next apartment dropped something heavy.

After dinner, Daniel packed the leftover meat into a container for lunch. Maya washed the skillet while he dried the plates and returned the salsa to the refrigerator.

“We’re out of dish soap,” she said.

“I’ll add it to the list.”

He wrote it on the magnetic pad, beneath **coffee filters** and **cat litter**, though they had not yet agreed to get a cat.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Marcus came in from the bedroom wearing an old college T-shirt, his hair still damp from a quick shower.

“Twenty minutes,” she said. “If we believe the bag.”

“We’ve believed worse things,” Marcus said, opening the refrigerator.

They had been living together for eleven months, long enough to know which shelf belonged to whom but not long enough to stop discussing it. Marcus moved Elena’s sparkling water aside and found two chicken breasts they had thawed that morning.

“Chicken and rice?” he asked.

“And broccoli. It needs to be used.”

He inspected the broccoli. “Define ‘needs.’”

“Before it becomes soup by itself.”

Marcus heated a skillet while Elena measured rice and water into a saucepan. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the cutting board and stepping aside to open drawers. Marcus trimmed the chicken and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Elena cut the broccoli into uneven florets, then added the thick stems after peeling them.

“You always save those,” he said.

“They’re food.”

“They’re architecture.”

While the chicken cooked, Marcus took out the recycling. Elena wiped the counter and checked the rice too early. When he returned, he found her scraping a browned piece of chicken from the pan.

“Quality control?”

“It was loose.”

They debated whether the broccoli should be steamed or roasted. Roasting would taste better, but steaming would be faster and wouldn’t heat the apartment. They steamed it.

At the small table by the window, Marcus divided the chicken. Elena gave him the larger piece, then took some back when he pointed out that she had skipped lunch.

They ate with soy sauce on the rice and lemon squeezed over everything. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley. Marcus mentioned the electric bill; Elena reminded him they needed laundry detergent.

Afterward, he washed the skillet while she packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch. She labeled it with masking tape anyway.

“You know I’ll remember,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, pressing the tape flat.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Ben came in from walking the dog, unclipped the leash, and nudged the door shut with his heel.

“Twenty minutes,” Maya said. “If we believe the package.”

Ben hung the leash on its hook. “I believe in rice.”

They had agreed on chicken bowls that morning because there were two thawed chicken breasts in the refrigerator and half a bell pepper that needed to be used. Maya measured water into a saucepan while Ben set a skillet on the stove. He found the pepper, an onion, and a soft lime in the crisper.

“Still good?” he asked, holding up the lime.

Maya pressed it with her thumb. “Good enough for Tuesday.”

Ben sliced the vegetables while she cut the chicken into uneven strips. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much ceremony: she stepped aside so he could reach the oil; he opened the cabinet when she asked for cumin. The dog settled hopefully between the refrigerator and the table.

When the skillet was hot, Ben added the chicken. Maya stirred the rice, lowered the burner, and began clearing the cutting board. They debated whether to add the last of a jar of salsa.

“It’ll just sit there otherwise,” Ben said.

“That’s not a cooking principle.”

“It is in this apartment.”

She laughed and spooned it into the skillet.

They ate at the small table by the window, bowls balanced on mismatched placemats. The rice was slightly underdone, but the chicken was tender, and the lime added more juice than either expected.

Ben asked whether they needed groceries. Maya opened the shared list on her phone and added rice, dog food, and coffee. He reminded her about dish soap.

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben washed the skillet. She dried it and put it away. By seven-fifteen, the kitchen was mostly clean, the dog had received one piece of pepper, and they were deciding whose turn it was to choose what to watch.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have half a pepper, three eggs, and something in foil,” she called.

From the living room, Ben closed his laptop. “The foil is probably chicken.”

“It’s probably from last week.”

He came over and opened it carefully. “Tuesday,” he said, sniffing. “Not this Tuesday.”

They threw it away.

Maya pulled a box of pasta from the cabinet while Ben checked the freezer. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that weekday dinners were less about recipes than negotiation.

“Pasta with frozen peas?” she suggested.

“We’re out of sauce.”

“We have butter. And Parmesan.”

Ben held up a bag of peas. “And exactly one serving of these.”

“Then use the pepper too.”

While the water heated, Maya sliced the pepper and half an onion. Ben grated Parmesan over a plate, stopping twice to pick up pieces that broke off. They talked about the email Maya’s manager had sent at 4:58 and whether Ben should take his car in before the warning light became a real problem.

“You said that last month,” Maya reminded him.

“I know. I’m building toward action.”

She laughed and slid the vegetables into a skillet. Ben salted the boiling water, poured in the pasta, and set a timer. When it went off, he scooped out a mug of cooking water before draining the pot, as Maya had taught him.

They tossed everything together with butter, Parmesan, black pepper, and enough pasta water to make it glossy. Ben divided it between two bowls, giving Maya slightly more vegetables.

At the table, they ate with the news playing quietly on a phone propped against the napkin holder.

“This is good,” Ben said.

“It needs lemon.”

“We don’t have lemon.”

Maya twirled another forkful. “Then it’s good.”

Afterward, Ben washed the skillet and pot while Maya packed the leftovers into a container for lunch. She wiped the counter, turned off the kitchen light, and followed him to the couch, where his laptop was still waiting.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed them home. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, still wearing her office slacks, slicing a red pepper into uneven strips. Across from her, Daniel opened the refrigerator and studied its contents.

“We have half a bag of spinach,” he said. “And maybe enough Parmesan to count.”

“Pasta, then?”

“That was pasta last night.”

“That was ravioli. Different category.”

Daniel considered this and nodded. He filled a pot with water while Maya heated olive oil in the skillet. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it: she chopped, he handled boiling water and cleanup. Still, both of them made adjustments. When Maya reached for the onion, Daniel reminded her about his early meeting.

“Fine,” she said, putting it back. “Your coworkers are welcome.”

He laughed and added salt to the pot. While the water heated, he tore the spinach from its thick stems. Maya dropped the peppers into the skillet, then found a jar of crushed red pepper in the cabinet.

“Too much?” she asked.

“Probably. Do it anyway.”

The pasta was ready in eleven minutes. Daniel drained it, reserving a mug of cloudy water because he had recently learned that was useful. Maya stirred the spinach into the peppers until it wilted, then added the pasta, Parmesan, and a splash from the mug. They tasted it from separate forks.

“Needs salt,” Daniel said.

“It always needs salt when you cook the pasta.”

“I salted the water.”

“Emotionally, maybe.”

They ate at the small table by the window, knees occasionally bumping underneath. Daniel told her about a client who had called him “David” through an entire meeting. Maya described the printer jamming five minutes before a deadline. Neither story required advice, though each offered some.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers into one container for Daniel’s lunch. He washed the skillet while she dried the plates. Outside, tires hissed on the wet street. Inside, the apartment was warm, the kitchen slightly messy, and tomorrow’s dinner still undecided.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice packet. Marcus came in from the garage carrying a grocery bag and set it on the counter.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said. “I got green beans.”

“Fresh?”

“Frozen. The fresh ones looked tired.”

Lena nodded. “Good call.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Marcus unpacked chicken thighs while Lena measured rice and water into a saucepan. He found the sheet pan in the drawer under the oven, then moved two baking dishes to reach it.

“Why do we own so many dishes?” he asked.

“Your mother keeps giving them to us.”

“My mother thinks we’re hosting Thanksgiving every week.”

Lena turned on the burner. “We should use the blue one on Sunday. She’ll ask.”

Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and too much paprika. Lena noticed but said nothing. She poured the green beans onto the other half of the pan and added olive oil. When Marcus reached for more salt, she caught his wrist.

“They’re already salted.”

He looked at the package. “You saved dinner.”

“I saved our blood pressure.”

While the food cooked, Marcus emptied the dishwasher. Lena wiped the counter and packed leftover rice from the night before into a container for her lunch. They compared schedules: her dentist appointment Thursday, his late meeting Wednesday, a possible visit to his sister on Saturday.

At seven-ten, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. The chicken skin was crisp, the beans slightly wrinkled, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot.

Marcus took a bite. “Paprika’s a little aggressive.”

“A little.”

They ate anyway. Lena gave him one of her chicken thighs, and he traded her the last of the green beans. Outside, someone dragged trash bins to the curb. Marcus asked if she wanted to watch an episode of their show.

“After we clean up,” she said.

He sighed, then stood and collected both plates.


By the time Maya got home, Daniel had already set a pot of water on the stove, though he hadn’t turned on the burner.

“I wasn’t sure about pasta,” he said, holding up his phone. “You said you might want tacos.”

“I said tacos sounded good at eleven this morning.” Maya dropped her bag beside the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. “Now they sound like work.”

They stood together, considering the shelves: half a jar of tomato sauce, spinach that needed to be used, eggs, a block of Parmesan, and one lemon.

“Pasta,” they agreed.

Daniel turned on the burner while Maya changed out of her work clothes. When she returned in sweatpants, he was slicing garlic with the small knife she disliked.

“Use the chef’s knife,” she said.

“This one was already clean.”

“It’s also terrible.”

She took over chopping, and Daniel washed the spinach, picking out two wilted leaves. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting without asking: Maya stepped aside so he could reach the colander; Daniel moved the cutting board before she set down the hot pan.

They sautéed the garlic and spinach in olive oil, then stirred in the tomato sauce. Daniel tasted it.

“Needs salt.”

“It always needs salt to you.”

He added a small pinch. Maya squeezed in half the lemon, tasted again, and nodded.

They ate at the table with the unopened mail pushed to one side. Daniel grated too much Parmesan over both bowls. Maya told him about a meeting that should have been an email. He described the neighbor’s dog watching him carry groceries upstairs as if expecting a delivery.

Halfway through dinner, Maya got up for red pepper flakes. Daniel took her bowl and stirred them in for her.

“Tomorrow, tacos?” he asked.

“If you buy tortillas.”

“I bought them yesterday.”

She looked toward the refrigerator.

“Then tomorrow,” she said.

Afterward, Daniel filled the sink while Maya packed the leftovers into one container. There wasn’t enough for two lunches, so they decided to split it and add toast. It was an ordinary compromise, made easily, before they turned off the kitchen light.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys into the blue bowl by the door, and opened the refrigerator. Half a bell pepper, a carton of eggs, leftover rice, and two scallions. She texted Daniel: Fried rice? Need anything?

He replied before she had taken off her shoes. Sounds good. I’ll grab broccoli.

They had been living together for eight months, long enough to share a grocery list but not long enough to agree on where the cutting boards belonged. Maya found the large one beside the stove, where Daniel always left it, and began chopping the pepper.

When he came in, he carried a small paper bag and shook rain from his jacket.

“They were out of regular broccoli,” he said, holding up a bag of florets. “This was three dollars more.”

“Convenience fee.”

“Extortion fee.”

He washed the broccoli while Maya broke up the cold rice with her fingers. Daniel heated oil in their wide skillet, then stepped aside so she could add the vegetables. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen: he cracked eggs into a bowl; she searched for the soy sauce and found it behind the oatmeal.

“Do you want all the scallions?” she asked.

“Save some for the top. Makes it look intentional.”

The rice hissed when it hit the pan. Daniel stirred while Maya poured in soy sauce, a little at a time.

“That’s enough,” he said.

“You always say that too early.”

“And you always make it salty.”

She stopped pouring. “Fine. Diplomatic amount.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using mismatched bowls. Outside, tires whispered over the wet street. Daniel added hot sauce after one bite. Maya noticed but chose not to comment.

They discussed whether to renew their lease, whose turn it was to call the internet company, and a package that had been delivered upstairs by mistake. Nothing was decided except that Daniel would wash the skillet and Maya would pack the leftovers.

“There’s enough for lunch,” she said.

“For one lunch.”

Maya divided it evenly into two containers.

“Now there is,” she said.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Ben came in from walking the dog, carrying a damp leash and a paper grocery bag.

“They were out of green beans,” he said. “I got broccoli.”

“That’s better anyway.”

“You always say that after I buy the substitute.”

He set the broccoli on the counter and fed the dog, while Maya opened the refrigerator. They had two chicken breasts, half a lemon, and a plastic container of yogurt nearing its expiration date. She suggested baking the chicken. Ben checked the time and shook his head.

“Pan’s faster. I’m starving.”

He trimmed the broccoli while Maya patted the chicken dry and sprinkled it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to keep stepping around each other. When Ben reached for the cutting board, Maya moved the hot skillet handle aside.

“Careful.”

“I saw it.”

“You almost elbowed it.”

“I saw it at the last possible second.”

The chicken hissed when she placed it in the pan. Ben added the broccoli to a pot with a little water and covered it. He mixed yogurt, lemon juice, and garlic in a cereal bowl, tasting it with his finger before adding more salt.

Maya poured couscous into another pot and turned off the burner. “Five minutes,” she said.

While everything finished, Ben cleared mail from the small dining table. He held up an envelope from the electric company.

“Tomorrow problem?”

“After dinner problem,” Maya said.

They ate with the windows cracked open to the cool April air. The chicken was slightly too dark on one side, and the broccoli was softer than Ben intended, but the yogurt sauce helped both.

“This is good,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“It can be both.”

Maya smiled and gave the dog a tiny piece of plain chicken. Afterward, Ben packed the leftovers for lunch while she washed the skillet. They discussed the electric bill, decided to run the dishwasher overnight, and argued mildly about whose turn it was to buy coffee.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen dumplings. The apartment smelled faintly of the coffee they had forgotten to empty from the machine that morning.

“Pan-fry or steam?” she asked.

Eli came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. “Pan-fry. Definitely.”

“You’re volunteering to clean the pan, then.”

He considered this. “Steam.”

Maya laughed and opened the freezer again. They had planned to go grocery shopping after work, but traffic had been bad and neither of them wanted to leave the apartment. Besides the dumplings, they found half a head of cabbage, two carrots, and a jar of chili crisp.

Eli put rice in the cooker while Maya sliced the vegetables. He rinsed the rice twice, then a third time when the water still looked cloudy. She watched him from the cutting board.

“My mother says twice is enough,” she said.

“My mother says until it’s clear.”

“Your mother also owns a bigger rice cooker.”

They divided the tasks without discussing them further. Maya sautéed the cabbage and carrots with soy sauce. Eli arranged the dumplings in a skillet, added water, and covered them. When the lid began rattling, he lowered the heat.

While they waited, Maya sorted the mail. There was a utility bill, a coupon for a hardware store, and a wedding invitation addressed to both of them.

“Your cousin,” she said, sliding it across the counter.

Eli glanced at the envelope. “We don’t have to answer tonight.”

“I know.”

They ate at the small table by the window. One dumpling had torn and stuck to the pan, so Eli gave it to himself. Maya added too much chili crisp, then stole a spoonful of his plain rice.

They talked about her meeting the next morning and the noise his car had started making. Afterward, Eli washed the skillet as promised, while Maya packed the leftovers into one container for lunch.

“Half each?” she asked.

“Unless you take all the dumplings.”

She closed the lid. “No guarantees.”


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a bag of frozen green beans. Marcus came in from the hallway carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Chicken or pasta?” Nina asked.

Marcus opened the refrigerator. “We should use the chicken. It says today.”

They had bought the package on Sunday with plans for several dinners that hadn’t happened. Marcus took out the chicken while Nina heated the oven and lined a sheet pan with foil. He trimmed the pieces at the sink, and she cut two potatoes into uneven wedges.

“Smaller,” he said, looking over.

“They’ll cook.”

“They’ll cook eventually.”

Nina rolled her eyes but cut the largest pieces in half. Marcus mixed olive oil, garlic powder, paprika, and salt in a bowl, then tossed the chicken in it. Nina added the potatoes to the same bowl afterward, turning them with a wooden spoon.

They put everything in the oven. With twenty minutes to wait, Marcus sorted the mail: a credit card offer, a utility bill, and a postcard from his dentist. Nina poured the green beans into a skillet with butter and a spoonful of water. She asked whether he had called the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet.

“I emailed,” he said.

“That means no.”

“It means there’s a written record.”

She smiled despite herself and handed him two plates. He set the table while she stirred the beans. When the timer rang, they checked the chicken together, cutting into the thickest piece to make sure it was done.

They ate at the small table near the living room window. The potatoes were crisp on one side and soft on the other.

“Smaller would’ve been better,” Nina admitted.

Marcus nodded carefully. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

They discussed groceries, whose turn it was to take out the trash, and whether they could afford a weekend trip next month. After dinner, Nina packed the leftover chicken for lunch. Marcus washed the pan, holding it at an angle so it would fit under the faucet, which continued its steady, irritating drip.


By six-thirty, Maya was standing in front of the open refrigerator, still wearing her office badge. “We have chicken, half a bell pepper, and something that used to be cilantro.”

From the kitchen table, Eric looked up from his laptop. “The cilantro is only mostly dead.”

“It’s liquid in the bag.”

“Okay. Fully dead.” He closed the laptop and joined her. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that deciding what to cook could take longer than cooking it.

“Tacos?” he suggested.

“No tortillas.”

“Rice bowls?”

Maya pulled out the chicken. “Rice bowls.”

While she changed clothes, Eric rinsed a cup of rice and set it on the stove. He cut the bell pepper into uneven strips, then found an onion in the pantry. By the time Maya returned in sweatpants, her hair tied back, the onion was making his eyes water.

“You’re using the good knife,” she said.

“I’m being responsible.”

“You’re cutting directly on the counter.”

He looked down. “Mostly responsible.”

She slid a cutting board under his onion and took over chopping. Eric cubed the chicken and seasoned it with salt, pepper, cumin, and too much chili powder. When it hit the hot skillet, they both coughed.

“Vent fan,” Maya said, reaching over him to switch it on.

“I was about to do that.”

“You were about to season us out of the apartment.”

They cooked the vegetables in the same pan, then opened a can of black beans and warmed them in a small pot. Maya found a lime in the fruit bowl, hard but usable. Eric set out bowls and two forks, then carried everything to the table.

The rice was slightly underdone, and the chicken was spicier than either expected. Maya added sour cream; Eric added hot sauce anyway.

“This is good,” he said after a few bites.

“It’s fine.”

“Weekday good.”

She nodded. “Definitely weekday good.”

They ate with the window cracked, talking about an overdue electric bill, her morning meeting, and whether they needed groceries before Saturday. When they finished, Eric washed the pans while Maya packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch and one for hers.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of frozen green beans. Marcus came in from the hallway carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Grocery coupons. Something addressed to the previous tenant.” He opened the refrigerator. “Are we doing the chicken tonight?”

“If you’re willing to cook it.”

Marcus took out two chicken breasts. Lena turned on the oven, then reached into a cabinet for a sheet pan. They had lived together for fourteen months, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them, but not long enough to agree on where everything belonged.

“Why is the olive oil next to the cereal?” he asked.

“Because you put the spices where the oil used to go.”

He considered this, then nodded. “Fair.”

While Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika, Lena cut two small potatoes into wedges. She dropped one on the floor, picked it up, and rinsed it under the faucet.

“Five-second rule?” Marcus asked.

“Running-water rule.”

They arranged everything on the pan and slid it into the oven. The green beans went into a saucepan with a little butter. While they waited, Marcus sorted the mail, and Lena packed leftover rice into a container for lunch.

At seven-ten, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. The chicken was slightly dry, and a few potato wedges were still firm in the middle.

“Not our best,” Marcus said.

“It’s fine.” Lena added hot sauce to her chicken. “Next time, smaller potatoes.”

“Or longer cooking.”

“Then the chicken gets worse.”

They ate while discussing whether they could postpone buying new tires until the following month. Marcus thought they could; Lena wanted to check the tread first. After dinner, he washed the pan while she dried the plates.

“Lunch tomorrow?” he asked, pointing to the remaining chicken.

Lena divided it into two containers. “Only if you take the undercooked potatoes.”

He laughed. “Deal.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Ben came in from walking the dog, shook rain from his jacket, and hung the leash by the door.

“Pasta?” he asked.

“Pasta,” Maya confirmed. “Unless you’ve developed a better plan in the last ten minutes.”

He opened the refrigerator and considered its contents: half an onion, a jar of sauce, Parmesan, and two cans of seltzer. “Nope.”

While Maya filled a pot with water, Ben chopped the onion. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate each movement.

“Behind you,” he said, carrying the cutting board to the stove.

“Hot pot,” she replied, shifting aside.

They had lived in the apartment for eleven months and had become good at this small choreography, though the drawer near the oven still caught on the cabinet door. Ben tugged it twice before finding the wooden spoon.

Maya salted the boiling water and added spaghetti. Ben cooked the onion in olive oil, then poured in the sauce. It sputtered onto the stovetop.

“You’re cleaning that,” Maya said.

“Already planned on it.”

They debated whether to microwave the green beans or roast them. Roasting would taste better, but the oven took too long to heat. The microwave won. Maya added butter and pepper after draining them, while Ben grated Parmesan into a chipped blue bowl.

They ate at the small table beside the window. The dog lay between their chairs, hopeful and alert. Ben talked about a meeting that had run twenty minutes over. Maya described an email she had rewritten four times before sending.

“Do we need groceries tomorrow?” he asked.

“Coffee, eggs, dog food.”

“And something that isn’t pasta.”

She smiled. “Ambitious.”

Afterward, Ben packed the leftover spaghetti for his lunch. Maya washed the pot, and he wiped the sauce from the stove as promised. They left the plates in the drying rack, turned off the kitchen light, and carried their seltzers to the couch.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a packet of rice. Mark came in from the small balcony carrying the basil plant, which had started to droop in the September heat.

“I think this is dying,” he said.

“It’s being dramatic,” Lena replied. “Give it water.”

While Mark set the plant beside the sink, Lena opened the refrigerator. They had planned tacos, but the ground turkey was still frozen. After a brief discussion, they agreed on rice bowls with eggs and whatever vegetables remained.

Mark rinsed the rice while Lena chopped half an onion and a slightly soft red pepper. He wanted to add the last zucchini; she had been saving it for pasta. They settled it by checking the calendar on the refrigerator.

“We’re getting pizza tomorrow,” Mark said.

“Then use the zucchini.”

He sliced it into uneven half-moons as Lena heated oil in a skillet. When the onion began to brown, he turned down the burner without asking. She noticed but said nothing. He had burned the onions twice that month.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, shifting cutting boards, and stepping aside. Mark fried two eggs while Lena stirred soy sauce and a spoonful of chili crisp into the vegetables. She tasted the mixture, added a splash of water, and handed him the spoon.

“More salt?”

He shook his head. “Maybe lime.”

They had one lime, hard and dry, but he managed to squeeze a little juice from it.

They carried their bowls to the couch because the dining table was covered with unopened mail. Lena chose a nature documentary; Mark found the remote under a blanket. Halfway through dinner, he traded her some of his egg for more zucchini.

“This is better than tacos,” he said.

“No,” Lena said, smiling. “But it’s fine.”

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while Mark washed the skillet. They left the bowls soaking and watered the basil before turning off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, studying the contents of the refrigerator. Daniel came in from walking the dog, unclipped Pepper’s leash, and nudged the door shut with his heel.

“We have chicken, half a zucchini, and a suspicious amount of spinach,” Maya said.

Daniel washed his hands. “Pasta?”

“We had pasta yesterday.”

“Rice, then.”

While Maya cut the chicken into small pieces, Daniel measured rice into a saucepan and rinsed it until the water ran mostly clear. They moved around each other without much thought, Maya stepping aside so he could reach the spice drawer, Daniel closing the cabinet she had left open.

“Paprika?” he asked.

“And garlic powder. Not too much salt.”

“You always say that, and then you add salt at the table.”

“That’s different.”

Pepper settled near the kitchen doorway, watching with practiced patience. Daniel heated oil in a skillet and added the chicken. It hissed loudly enough that Maya turned up the exhaust fan. She sliced the zucchini while he stirred, then handed him the cutting board so he could slide the vegetables into the pan.

The spinach looked wilted but usable. Maya picked out two slimy leaves and dropped the rest into a colander. “We should shop tomorrow.”

Daniel glanced at the nearly empty refrigerator. “After work?”

“If neither of us gets stuck late.”

The rice finished first. Daniel fluffed it with a fork while Maya added the spinach and a squeeze of lemon to the skillet. They tasted the chicken, agreed it needed pepper, and divided everything between two bowls.

They ate at the small table by the window. Daniel told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Maya described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice. Halfway through dinner, she reached across and took a piece of zucchini from his bowl.

“You have your own,” he said.

“Yours looked better.”

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya washed the skillet. He dried it and put it away, and they debated whether there was enough energy left for one episode of their show.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Lena in from the parking lot. She set two grocery bags on the counter and found Marcus standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have half a pepper, three eggs, and something that used to be cilantro,” he said.

“I bought pasta.”

Marcus closed the refrigerator. “Then we’re saved.”

They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Lena filled a pot with water while Marcus unpacked the bags. He held up a jar of tomato sauce.

“You got the spicy one.”

“You like the spicy one.”

“So do you.”

“Exactly.”

He sliced the pepper and an onion while she changed out of her work shoes and returned in socks. The kitchen was narrow, and they had learned a small choreography: Marcus stepped aside for the colander; Lena reached behind him for the wooden spoon. When the onion began to brown too quickly, he lowered the heat. She added the sauce, then rinsed the jar with a little water and poured that in too.

“My mother does that,” Marcus said.

“So does mine. It’s not proprietary.”

While the pasta boiled, they discussed whether to renew their lease. The landlord had raised the rent again, but moving would mean deposits, boxes, and giving up the short commute.

“We could look,” Lena said. “Looking isn’t moving.”

Marcus nodded and grated Parmesan over a plate. “Saturday?”

“After breakfast.”

They ate at the small table by the window, their knees occasionally bumping underneath. The pasta was slightly overcooked because they had been comparing apartment listings on Marcus’s phone, but neither complained. Lena added red pepper flakes; Marcus tore the last two pieces of bread in half.

Afterward, he washed the pot while she packed the leftovers into one container.

“For lunch?” he asked.

“We can split it.”

“There’s barely enough.”

Lena handed him the larger portion. “You have that late meeting.”

He dried his hands and put the container in her work bag instead. “You always forget to eat on Tuesdays.”

She looked at him, then left it there. Outside, rain ticked against the glass. Marcus turned on the kettle, and Lena wiped the table clean.


By the time Maya got home, Daniel had already put a pot of water on the stove, though it was only beginning to tremble at the bottom.

“I was thinking pasta,” he said. “Unless you had a better idea.”

Maya set her laptop bag beside the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. “Pasta is fine. We should use the spinach before it gives up.”

Daniel found half a box of penne in the pantry while Maya changed out of her work shoes. When she returned in socks, she carried the spinach to the sink and sorted through it, dropping two slimy leaves into the trash.

“Garlic?” she asked.

“Always.”

He minced three cloves while she sliced the last of a container of cherry tomatoes. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate space without thinking much about it. Maya stepped aside so Daniel could reach the olive oil; he moved the cutting board so she could open the silverware drawer.

The water boiled. Daniel salted it and poured in the pasta. Maya heated oil in a skillet and added the garlic. It browned faster than she expected.

“Too hot,” Daniel said, turning down the burner.

“I know,” she replied, but she smiled. She added the tomatoes, and the sizzling softened into a wet simmer.

While the pasta cooked, Daniel opened the mail. He put a grocery-store flyer in recycling and left an electricity bill on the table.

“We can pay that Friday,” Maya said.

“I’ll set a reminder.”

They drained the pasta, saving a mug of cooking water because a recipe had once told them to. Maya stirred the spinach into the skillet, and Daniel added the penne and enough water to loosen everything. They grated Parmesan over two bowls.

At the table, Daniel tasted his dinner and reached for salt.

“Wait,” Maya said. “Try the cheese first.”

He took another bite and put the shaker down.

Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked in the hallway. Maya told Daniel about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. He told her the bathroom faucet was dripping again. They agreed to look at it Saturday.

After eating, Maya washed the skillet while Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch. Neither of them mentioned dessert until they found two chocolate cookies in the cabinet and split them evenly.


Maya got home first and found the chicken still frozen in the refrigerator, exactly where Daniel had moved it that morning.

She texted him a picture. **Plan B?**

His reply came while she was taking off her shoes. **Tacos. I’ll get tortillas.**

By six fifteen, Daniel was home with a paper bag tucked under one arm. Maya had already opened a can of black beans and was slicing half an onion at the counter. Their apartment smelled faintly of the downstairs neighbor’s laundry detergent and the candle Maya had lit the night before.

“You got corn,” she said, looking into the bag.

“They were cheaper.”

“I like flour.”

“I know. They were two dollars more.”

Maya considered this, then nodded. “Fair.”

Daniel put rice on the stove while she browned ground turkey in their largest skillet. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading places without much discussion. When Maya opened the spice cabinet, three jars fell against the door.

“We need to organize this,” she said.

“You said that Sunday.”

“And I was right Sunday too.”

He laughed and handed her the cumin.

The rice began to boil over while Daniel was grating cheese. He turned down the burner and wiped the stove with a dish towel, then checked the mail he had dropped on the table. There was an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation addressed to both of them.

“Your cousin?” Maya asked.

“Second cousin. June, I think.”

“We’ll check the calendar.”

They ate on the couch because the small table was covered with folded laundry. Daniel made two tacos at once and cracked one shell down the middle. Maya passed him a fork without comment.

The beans needed salt. The salsa was hotter than expected. They discussed whether to watch an episode of their show or finish cleaning the bathroom. The show won, on the condition that Daniel washed the pans afterward.

When the credits started, Maya gathered the plates. Daniel stood and carried the skillet to the sink. Neither mentioned the frozen chicken, waiting for tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. At the small table behind her, Marcus answered one last email on his laptop.

“Do we have any onions?” she asked.

Marcus closed the laptop and checked the wire basket beside the refrigerator. “Half of one. It looks tired.”

“So do I. Use it anyway.”

He laughed, peeled off the dry outer layer, and began chopping while Lena rinsed the rice. They had planned to make tacos, but the ground turkey was still frozen, so they settled on rice bowls with black beans, corn, and whatever vegetables remained in the crisper.

Marcus found a red pepper and held it up. “Still good?”

Lena inspected a soft spot near the stem. “Cut around that.”

While the rice simmered, she opened a can of beans and drained it. Marcus warmed a skillet, added the onion and pepper, then shook in cumin without measuring.

“That’s a lot,” Lena said.

“It’s a bold Tuesday.”

She nudged him aside and stirred. He opened the freezer, poured corn into the pan, and returned the bag before it could thaw on the counter. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced small adjustments—one stepping back, the other reaching for a spoon, both remembering not to leave the refrigerator door open.

They disagreed briefly about whether to add salsa to the skillet or serve it cold. Lena won, mostly because Marcus admitted he didn’t care enough to defend his position.

They ate at the table beneath the window, bowls topped with shredded cheese and spoonfuls of salsa. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk.

“The rice is a little crunchy,” Lena said.

Marcus took another bite. “I like it.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only a little.”

After dinner, he packed the leftovers for lunch while she washed the skillet. He dried the plates and set them in the cabinet. By seven-fifteen, the kitchen was clean, and they carried two mugs of tea to the couch.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions from the neighbors downstairs. Lena set her laptop on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator.

“We have chicken, half a zucchini, and that rice from Sunday,” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail and loosened his tie. “The rice is still good?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

She took out the container and held it toward him. He inspected it with exaggerated seriousness, then nodded. “Approved.”

They decided on fried rice because it would use everything and require only one pan. While Lena cut the zucchini, Marcus trimmed the chicken into small pieces. Their kitchen was narrow enough that opening the dishwasher blocked the path to the stove, so they moved around each other by habit—one stepping back, the other turning sideways.

“Did you pay the electric bill?” Lena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I thought you did.”

“I paid internet.”

He rinsed his hands, picked up his phone, and paid the bill while Lena heated oil in the skillet. “Done. Autopay next month?”

“Yes, please.”

Marcus cooked the chicken with salt and pepper. Lena added the zucchini, then pushed everything to one side and cracked in two eggs. When she reached for the soy sauce, the bottle gave only a thin splash.

“That’s enough,” Marcus said.

“It is absolutely not.”

He found two takeout packets in the junk drawer, squeezed them into the pan, and stirred while Lena broke up the cold rice with a wooden spoon. They tasted it together. Marcus added hot sauce to his bowl; Lena added none.

They ate at the small table by the window, with the evening news playing quietly from the living room. Marcus told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Lena described a customer who had spelled her name wrong three different ways.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while he washed the skillet. He left it to dry beside the sink, and she wiped a streak of sauce from the counter.

“Tea?” he asked.

Lena glanced at the clock. “Only if it’s decaf.”

Marcus filled the kettle. “I know.”


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Marcus came in carrying the mail under one arm and set his keys in the blue bowl by the door.

“Chicken or eggs?” Lena asked.

Marcus opened the refrigerator and inspected the plastic container on the lower shelf. “Chicken. We should use it tonight.”

They had bought the thighs on Sunday with plans for a more ambitious meal, but it was Wednesday now, and neither of them had much ambition left. Lena heated a skillet while Marcus trimmed the chicken and sprinkled it with salt, pepper, and paprika. She found half a zucchini and a red pepper in the produce drawer.

“Still good?” he asked.

She cut a soft spot from the pepper. “Good enough.”

While the chicken cooked, Marcus sorted the mail at the counter: grocery coupons, a credit card offer, a notice from the electric company. Lena sliced the vegetables and added them to the pan. The couscous needed only boiling water, so she stirred it into a small pot and turned off the burner.

Marcus checked the thickest piece of chicken with the instant-read thermometer his mother had given them. “One fifty-eight.”

“Give it another minute.”

He lowered the heat and opened the window above the sink when the smoke alarm gave a warning chirp. Lena laughed and waved a dish towel beneath it.

They ate at the small table beside the living room, their plates mismatched because two from the original set had broken. Marcus added hot sauce. Lena squeezed the last wedge of lemon over her couscous.

They talked about whether to renew their lease, whose turn it was to call the internet company, and a coworker of Lena’s who kept reheating fish in the office microwave.

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into one container for Lena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he dried the plates. When the counters were clear, they split the final cookie from a package in the cupboard and stood together by the sink, eating it in two bites.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the rain that had followed Maya in from the parking lot. She dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have chicken,” he said, as if reporting good news. “And half a bag of spinach that’s becoming philosophical.”

Maya took off her damp jacket. “Pasta?”

“We had pasta yesterday.”

“Rice, then.”

Daniel closed the refrigerator and reached for the rice cooker while Maya changed into sweatpants. When she returned, he was rinsing jasmine rice in a metal bowl, the water turning cloudy around his fingers. She set a skillet on the stove and sliced the chicken into strips.

“Garlic?” she asked.

“Always.”

He peeled three cloves and handed them over. She minced them with the onion while he measured water for the rice. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of people who had bumped hips and stepped on toes many times.

Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Daniel opened the spinach, smelled it, and removed two questionable leaves.

“Still good,” he decided.

“High standards.”

“I’m protecting us.”

While the chicken browned, Maya checked a message from her sister. Daniel leaned against the counter and told her about a meeting that should have been an email. She laughed, then nudged him aside so she could reach the soy sauce. Together they improvised a quick pan sauce with soy sauce, honey, and a splash of vinegar.

They ate at the small table by the window, bowls balanced over mismatched placemats. The rice was slightly undercooked, but the chicken was good, and the spinach had survived.

“Lunch tomorrow?” Daniel asked.

Maya looked at the skillet. “If we don’t finish it.”

They both took smaller second helpings.

Afterward, Daniel washed while Maya dried. She packed the remaining food into one container, then divided it into two after he raised an eyebrow.

Outside, tires hissed on wet pavement. Inside, the rice cooker clicked as it cooled, and they argued mildly about whose turn it was to take out the trash.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Mark came in from walking their dog, shook the drizzle from his jacket, and unclipped Rosie’s leash.

“Chicken or chickpeas?” Lena asked.

Mark opened the refrigerator. “The chicken smells fine, but we should cook it tonight.”

They had bought the package on Sunday with ambitious plans for lunches. Now it was Wednesday, and neither of them wanted a complicated meal. Mark set a skillet on the stove while Lena cut the chicken into pieces. He sprinkled them with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika, then added them to the hot oil.

“Can you do something green?” he asked.

Lena found half a bag of spinach behind the milk. “This is more tired than green.”

“It’ll cook down.”

“So will we.”

While Mark stirred the chicken, Lena boiled water for the couscous and picked a few wilted leaves from the spinach. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. When Lena needed the drawer beside Mark’s hip, she tapped him with the wooden spoon, and he stepped aside.

Rosie sat near the table, watching every motion.

“You already ate,” Mark told her.

Lena added the spinach to the skillet. “She doesn’t recognize that as relevant information.”

They tasted the chicken together. Mark thought it needed lemon; Lena thought it needed more salt. They added both. The couscous clumped, so Lena broke it apart with a fork while Mark filled two glasses with tap water.

They ate at the small table by the window. Rain ticked against the glass, and someone upstairs dragged a chair across the floor. Mark described a tense meeting at work. Lena listened, then told him their landlord had emailed about inspecting the smoke detectors Friday.

“Can you be here?” she asked.

“I can work from home.”

After dinner, Lena packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch. Mark washed the skillet and handed it to her to dry. Neither mentioned the television until the counters were wiped and the kitchen light was off.