By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Ben, reading the back of a rice package.

“Twenty minutes,” she said. “If we start now, we can eat before seven.”

Ben set two grocery bags on the counter. He had stopped at the neighborhood market on his way home and bought chicken thighs, broccoli, and a lemon. “I also got cookies,” he said, taking out the package.

“Those aren’t dinner.”

“They’re morale.”

Maya rinsed a cup of rice while Ben heated a skillet. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate every movement. When Maya opened the refrigerator, Ben stepped sideways with the cutting board. When he reached for the olive oil, she passed it to him without looking.

“Garlic?” he asked.

“Two cloves.”

“Three?”

She considered. “Three.”

Ben trimmed the chicken and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Maya chopped the broccoli, including most of the stems because she disliked wasting them. She put the rice on the back burner, then cleared yesterday’s mail from the small table. A utility bill went under Ben’s phone so they would remember to discuss it later.

The chicken sizzled when Ben placed it in the skillet. Maya opened a window, though the February air was cold.

“Smoke alarm,” she explained.

“I wasn’t going to burn it.”

“You said that last time.”

While the chicken cooked, they compared their schedules. Maya had a late meeting Thursday. Ben offered to make pasta that night, and she reminded him they were out of sauce. He added it to the shared grocery list on his phone.

They ate at the table with the broccoli piled between them. The rice was slightly underdone, but the chicken was crisp at the edges, and the lemon made everything taste brighter.

Ben reached for a second piece. “Good weekday dinner.”

Maya nodded. “Seven-oh-three. Close enough.”

Afterward, he washed the pans while she packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. They split the cookies, three each, and left the utility bill for tomorrow.


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.

“You’re halfway there,” she said, dropping her canvas bag on a chair.

He looked at the stove and laughed. “I was wondering why it wasn’t boiling.”

They had lived together in the small Ohio apartment for almost two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Daniel cooked more often; Maya remembered what was about to expire. She opened the refrigerator and found half a bag of spinach, a lemon, and a container of grated Parmesan.

“We need to use the spinach,” she said. “It’s getting dramatic.”

Daniel turned on the burner. “Pasta?”

“Pasta.”

While he salted the water, Maya rinsed the spinach and picked out two slimy leaves. Daniel minced garlic, pausing to check a text from his brother. They talked about their days in pieces: her meeting that should have been an email, the customer who had argued with him about a return, the rent increase mentioned in a letter downstairs.

“Forty dollars isn’t terrible,” Daniel said.

“It’s not nothing,” Maya replied.

They agreed to review their budget on Saturday, then let the subject rest. When the pasta was nearly done, Daniel warmed olive oil in a skillet and added the garlic. Maya transferred the spinach by handfuls, stirring until it collapsed. She squeezed in the lemon while he drained the noodles, saving a mug of cloudy water because a cooking video had once told him to.

They tossed everything together with Parmesan, pepper, and enough pasta water to make it glossy. Maya tasted a strand.

“More salt.”

Daniel added some. “Now?”

She tasted again and nodded.

They ate at the small table by the window, their knees occasionally bumping underneath. Outside, someone dragged trash bins toward the curb. Daniel offered Maya the last piece of garlic bread, and she tore it in half.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers for lunch while she washed the skillet. Neither mentioned dessert until Maya found two ice cream sandwiches behind the frozen peas.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice. Mark came in from the small balcony carrying the basil plant they kept forgetting to water.

“It’s alive,” he announced.

“Barely. Can you chop the onion?”

Mark washed his hands while Lena opened the refrigerator. They had planned to make tacos, but the tortillas smelled stale, and the avocado had gone soft and brown. After a brief inventory, they settled on rice bowls with black beans, frozen corn, and the last two eggs.

Mark diced the onion, pausing twice to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. Lena rinsed the rice and set it on the stove. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate every movement.

“Behind you,” she said, carrying the colander to the sink.

“Hot pan,” he replied, shifting toward the counter.

While the onions cooked, Mark opened the beans and seasoned them with cumin and hot sauce. Lena found half a lime in the crisper drawer and squeezed it over the corn. They discussed whether to order groceries that night or wait until Saturday. Mark wanted to avoid the delivery fee; Lena pointed out they were out of coffee.

“That changes things,” he said.

She fried the eggs while he divided the rice between two chipped blue bowls. One yolk broke, so Lena gave that egg to herself. Mark noticed but didn’t argue. He added beans and corn, then snipped a few basil leaves over both bowls, though neither was sure basil belonged.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, someone walked a dog under the streetlights. Mark said the meal needed cheese. Lena said everything needed cheese, according to him.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while he washed the skillet. They made a grocery list together, debating cereal brands and adding coffee twice. When Mark reached for the dish towel, Lena handed it to him without looking, already wiping crumbs from the table.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of toasted cumin and the rain that had followed them in from the parking lot. Maya stood at the counter, slicing a red pepper, while Ben rinsed rice in a saucepan.

“Is this enough?” he asked, tilting the pan to show her.

“For dinner, yes. For the lunch you’ll forget to pack tomorrow, no.”

“I don’t forget. I make a late decision not to.”

Maya smiled and slid the pepper into the skillet with the onions. They had planned tacos, but the tortillas in the refrigerator were spotted with mold, so they were improvising. Ben found a can of black beans in the pantry and opened it while Maya added frozen corn to the pan.

“Bowls?” he suggested.

“Bowls,” she agreed.

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of two people who had shared it for three years. Ben reached over her for the salt; Maya ducked beneath his arm to get the hot sauce. On the counter, her phone played a public-radio story neither of them was following closely.

Ben drained the beans and stirred them into the vegetables. “Your turn to call the landlord,” he said. “The bathroom faucet is dripping again.”

“I called last time.”

“You emailed.”

“That counts.”

“It didn’t fix the faucet.”

She gave him a look, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow if you take the recycling down tonight.”

“Deal.”

The rice finished first. Ben fluffed it with a fork while Maya cut a lime and divided the last avocado, giving him the larger half because he had skipped lunch. They assembled their bowls at the stove and carried them to the small table by the window.

For a minute they ate without talking. Rain tapped the glass, and a bus sighed at the corner below.

“This is better than tacos,” Ben said.

“It’s exactly tacos without tortillas.”

“Still better.”

Maya pushed the hot sauce toward him. “Write ‘tortillas’ on the grocery list.”

He opened his phone, added it, and then typed “coffee” before either of them could forget.


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

“Twenty minutes?” he asked.

“More like thirty if we want vegetables.”

They had planned to make tacos, but neither had remembered tortillas. Ben opened the refrigerator and took inventory: half a zucchini, a red pepper, a container of spinach, and a package of chicken thighs they needed to use.

“Pasta?” he suggested.

Maya held up the box. “Already negotiating with it.”

Ben filled a pot with water while Maya cut the chicken into small pieces. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. When he reached for the olive oil, she passed it over before he asked. He heated a skillet and added the chicken, then stepped back as it hissed.

“Did you season that?”

Ben paused. “I was about to.”

“You always say that.”

“And sometimes it’s true.”

Maya laughed and handed him the salt. She sliced the pepper and zucchini while he stirred the chicken. The dog settled near the refrigerator, watching for anything that might fall.

They decided against making a separate sauce. Maya added garlic from a jar, then tipped the vegetables into the skillet. Ben drained the pasta, saving a mug of cloudy water because he had seen someone do it online. They mixed everything together with spinach and grated Parmesan. The reserved water helped, though neither of them admitted surprise.

They ate at the small table by the window. Ben added hot sauce; Maya told him to taste it first next time. They talked about a leaking faucet, her morning meeting, and whether they could afford a weekend trip in October.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Ben washed the skillet and pot, leaving the pasta bowl “to soak.”

“It doesn’t need soaking,” she said.

“It needs time to reflect,” he replied, turning on the faucet.


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 paper bag from the corner market.

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

“That’s fine. Did you get a lemon?”

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

They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner usually happened without much discussion. On weeknights, they relied on a loose formula: something quick, something green, and enough leftovers for one lunch.

Maya filled a saucepan with water while Ben cut the broccoli into uneven florets. She opened the refrigerator and found two chicken breasts they had thawed that morning.

“Pan or oven?” she asked.

“Pan’s faster.”

“You’re washing it.”

“Fair.”

Ben patted the chicken dry and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Maya sliced the lemon and started the couscous. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the cutting board and stepping aside to open drawers.

When the smoke alarm chirped from the heat, Ben waved a dish towel beneath it. Maya opened the window over the sink.

“Every time,” she said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s covered in grease.”

While the chicken rested, Maya sautéed the broccoli in the same pan. Ben stirred butter and lemon juice into the couscous, then tasted it.

“Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

He added a pinch anyway.

They ate at the small table by the living-room window. Outside, traffic moved slowly along the wet street. The dog settled between their chairs, hopeful and alert.

Maya divided the remaining couscous into a plastic container for Ben’s lunch. He gave her the larger piece of chicken without mentioning it.

“Anything good happen today?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “My meeting got canceled.”

“That counts.”

They ate quietly for a while, then discussed whether they needed laundry detergent and who would call the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet. Afterward, Ben washed the pan as promised, and Maya dried the plates and put them away.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Marcus came in from walking the dog, carrying a paper bag of mail under one arm.

“Chicken or pasta?” she asked.

Marcus unclipped Pepper’s leash. “How old is the chicken?”

“Not old. Just… Tuesday old.”

He leaned past her to check the package. “Chicken, then. We can use the broccoli before it gives up.”

They had been living together for almost two years, long enough that dinner rarely required a plan. Lena set a skillet on the stove while Marcus rinsed the broccoli and cut it into uneven florets. She trimmed the chicken thighs, dropping scraps into an empty grocery bag.

“Rice?” he asked.

“Too slow.”

“It takes twenty minutes.”

“I’m hungry now.”

Marcus opened the freezer. “There are those rolls.”

“Perfect.”

While the chicken browned, Lena sorted the mail at the counter: electric bill, grocery coupons, a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. Marcus tossed the broccoli with oil and salt, then slid the pan into the oven beside the rolls.

“You put pepper on it?” Lena asked.

He paused. “I forgot.”

She handed him the grinder. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Affordable rent?”

“That too.”

They ate at the small table near the window. Pepper settled underneath, hopeful and alert. The chicken was a little too salty, and one roll was still cold in the middle, but the broccoli had crisp edges.

Marcus mentioned a meeting scheduled for eight the next morning. Lena told him the bathroom sink had started draining slowly again. They agreed to buy drain cleaner, then debated whether it was already on the shopping list.

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into a container for Lena’s lunch. She filled the skillet with soapy water and wiped crumbs from the table into her palm.

“Want tea?” he asked.

Lena looked at the clock. “Only if you make it.”

He filled the kettle. She turned on the dishwasher, and together they listened to both machines begin their familiar evening hum.


By the time Maya got home, the apartment smelled faintly of toasted cumin. Daniel stood at the stove, still in his work clothes, stirring black beans in a small saucepan.

“I was going to make tacos,” he said, “but we’re out of tortillas.”

Maya set her bag on the chair and opened the refrigerator. “We have rice.”

“We had rice. That container is empty.”

She held it up anyway, as if a few grains might appear. “Okay. Bowls, then. Beans, eggs, whatever vegetables are still alive.”

Together they assessed the crisper drawer. One bell pepper was wrinkled but usable. Half an onion sat wrapped in plastic. Maya found a bunch of cilantro with blackened stems and began picking off the good leaves while Daniel diced the pepper.

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

“I scheduled it for Friday.”

“Friday is after the due date.”

He paused, knife above the cutting board. “Then I scheduled it for tomorrow.”

She looked at him.

“I’ll change it,” he said.

Maya rinsed the cilantro and started four eggs in a skillet. Daniel added the vegetables to the beans, then opened a jar of salsa. There was barely enough for two servings, so he scraped the sides with a spoon and mixed in a little hot sauce.

They divided the food between two chipped blue bowls. Maya carried them to the small table by the window while Daniel filled two glasses with tap water. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley.

The eggs were slightly overcooked, and the beans needed salt. Daniel got up for the shaker. Maya reminded him about the bill again, and he pulled out his phone before sitting down.

“There,” he said after a few taps. “Paid tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

They ate quietly for a minute. Then Daniel asked whether they should buy tortillas on the weekend.

“And rice,” Maya said.

“And salsa.”

She added all three to the shared grocery list on her phone. After dinner, Daniel washed the pans while Maya packed the leftover beans for lunch. Neither called it a good meal, but both went back for the last spoonful.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice packet. Marcus came in from walking the dog, carrying the mail under one arm.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something trying to sell us a new roof.”

“We rent.”

“I know. Very ambitious marketing.”

He dropped the mail on the counter and filled the dog’s water bowl. Lena opened the refrigerator. They had planned to make tacos, but the ground turkey was still frozen.

“We could order pizza,” Marcus said.

“We ordered pizza Saturday.”

“That was four days ago.”

Lena gave him a look and took out eggs, spinach, and half a red bell pepper. “Fried rice?”

Marcus checked the pantry. “One packet of microwave rice and no soy sauce.”

“There are packets in the junk drawer.”

He found three soy sauce packets beneath batteries, tape, and an expired coupon. While Lena diced the pepper, Marcus heated the rice and scrambled four eggs in their largest skillet. They bumped elbows twice in the narrow kitchen.

“You’re crowding me,” Lena said.

“You’re standing in front of every drawer.”

“That’s because you keep needing things.”

He laughed and moved to the other side of the stove. Lena added the spinach, watching it collapse into the hot pan. Marcus tore open the rice packet too quickly, scattering a few grains across the counter.

“Nice,” she said.

“I’ll clean it.”

They mixed everything together with the soy sauce and a spoonful of chili crisp. Marcus tasted it and added salt. Lena tasted it after him and added more chili crisp.

They ate at the small table by the window, with the dog lying across Marcus’s feet. Outside, someone dragged recycling bins toward the curb.

“This is actually good,” Marcus said.

“It’s eggs and rice.”

“Still good.”

Lena divided the leftovers into one container for Marcus’s lunch. He stood and carried both bowls to the sink while she wiped the stove. Neither mentioned the pizza menu stuck to the refrigerator, though Marcus glanced at it once before turning on the faucet.


By the time Nina got home, Marcus had already set a pot of water on the stove. He stood at the counter in his work clothes, slicing a red bell pepper into uneven strips.

“Pasta?” she asked, dropping her keys into the blue bowl by the door.

“Unless you had a better idea.”

Nina opened the refrigerator and inspected its contents: half a bag of spinach, a jar of marinara, three eggs, and several containers neither of them wanted to investigate. “Pasta is the better idea.”

She changed into sweatpants while Marcus salted the water. When she returned, she took over the cutting board and diced an onion. Marcus opened the marinara and frowned at the label.

“This is the spicy one.”

“You bought it.”

“I thought the green lid meant basil.”

Nina laughed. “We have yogurt if it’s terrible.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Marcus poured the pasta into the boiling water, and Nina sautéed the onion and pepper in their largest skillet. She added the spinach a handful at a time, pressing it down until it wilted. Marcus grated the end of a Parmesan wedge, stopping twice to keep his knuckles away from the grater.

“Save some pasta water,” Nina reminded him.

“I know.”

“You forgot last time.”

“I remember forgetting.”

He scooped out a mugful before draining the noodles. Together they stirred everything into the skillet, thinning the sauce with a splash of the cloudy water. Marcus tasted it and reached for the red pepper flakes.

Nina caught his wrist. “You just said it was spicy.”

“It’s not spicy enough.”

They compromised on black pepper.

At the table, they ate from mismatched bowls with glasses of tap water. Marcus told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Nina described the dog she’d seen riding in a bicycle basket on her walk from the bus stop.

Halfway through dinner, Marcus got up for more Parmesan.

“Bring the container for leftovers,” Nina said.

He returned with both. They divided the remaining pasta into one lunch portion and one smaller portion they agreed to supplement tomorrow with toast. Afterward, Nina washed the skillet while Marcus dried, and they debated whether they had enough energy to watch a full episode of anything.


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

“Chicken or chickpeas?” Lena asked.

Marcus opened the refrigerator and studied its contents. “We should use the chicken. It’s been in there since Sunday.”

While he trimmed the thighs, Lena sliced a zucchini and half a red onion. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit: Marcus stepped aside when she needed the trash drawer; Lena carried the cutting board to the stove when he reached for the olive oil.

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

“This morning,” he said. “Did you email the landlord about the bathroom fan?”

Lena paused. “I drafted it.”

Marcus smiled. “So, no.”

“So, after dinner.”

They seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Marcus put it in a skillet while Lena spread the vegetables on a sheet pan. The oven had only just finished preheating, and she complained that it took forever. He reminded her that they had decided not to buy a countertop oven because there was nowhere to put it.

As the chicken browned, Pepper settled beneath the table, hopeful and watchful. Lena poured boiling water over the couscous and covered the pot. Marcus washed the knife and cutting board, then wiped up a streak of oil near the stove.

They ate at the small table by the window. The vegetables were a little too soft, but the chicken had crisp edges, and Lena stirred lemon juice into the couscous.

“This is good,” Marcus said.

“It needs parsley.”

“We don’t have parsley.”

“I know. I’m planning for next time.”

Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Marcus loaded the dishwasher, leaving out the skillet because it never came clean in the machine. While he scrubbed it, she sent the landlord the email and read it aloud before pressing send.


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 and dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

“What are we thinking?” he asked, washing his hands.

“Pasta, maybe. We have half a jar of sauce, but I don’t know if it’s still good.”

Ben took the jar from the refrigerator and checked the date. He sniffed it, then held it out to her.

“No,” Maya said, leaning away. “If you have to ask someone else to smell it, throw it out.”

He laughed and scraped the sauce into the trash. They settled on spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and Parmesan, plus the green beans. Ben filled a pot with water while Maya sliced garlic. He reminded her that they were almost out of dog food; she asked him to add it to the shared grocery list.

“Already did,” he said.

“Then why are you reminding me?”

“Conversation.”

The water took longer to boil than either expected. Maya heated the green beans in a skillet, adding salt and a little lemon juice. Ben grated the last wedge of Parmesan and scattered some on the counter. The dog waited below, hopeful but unsuccessful.

When the pasta was done, they carried their bowls to the small table by the window. Ben went back for forks. Maya noticed a stack of mail and moved it to the empty chair.

They ate while discussing whether to renew their lease. The rent was going up again, but moving would mean deposits, boxes, and giving up the short commute.

“Let’s look this weekend,” Maya said. “Just look.”

Ben nodded. “No decisions after pasta.”

The spaghetti was slightly too garlicky, and the green beans were softer than Maya intended, but they both had seconds. Afterward, Ben washed the pot and skillet while Maya dried them and packed the remaining pasta into a container for lunch. Neither mentioned the mail again.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and stood for a moment in the quiet apartment. It was Tuesday, and the refrigerator offered no inspiration: half a bag of spinach, eggs, Parmesan, and a container of rice from Sunday.

When Daniel came in ten minutes later, carrying the mail under one arm, she was already rinsing the spinach.

“Fried rice?” she asked.

“With eggs?” He set the mail on the counter and opened the freezer. “There are peas.”

“Then definitely fried rice.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Maya chopped an onion while Daniel broke up the cold rice with a fork. He found a soft carrot in the crisper, trimmed away the bad end, and diced the rest.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

Daniel paused. “I emailed. About the bathroom fan.”

“That means no.”

“It means there’s a written record.”

She smiled despite herself and slid the onions into the hot skillet. Daniel opened the window when the oil began to smoke, then beat three eggs in a chipped blue bowl. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the spatula and moving dirty dishes into the sink.

When the rice was crisp at the edges, Maya added soy sauce. Daniel tasted it and reached for the bottle again.

“Wait,” she said. “It gets saltier.”

He considered this, then put the bottle down. “Fine. But more pepper.”

They ate at the small table beside the window, their bowls warm in their hands. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Daniel sorted the mail between bites: grocery coupons, a credit card offer, a utility bill.

“Saturday,” Maya said, tapping the coupon for a hardware store. “New bathroom fan.”

“Saturday,” he agreed.

The rice was slightly dry, so they added hot sauce. Daniel took the last spoonful, then noticed Maya looking at the pan and divided it between their bowls.

Afterward, she washed while he dried. Neither of them mentioned the fan again.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the laundry detergent from the load Maya had started after work. She stood at the counter slicing a green pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We have half a jar of salsa,” he said, holding it up to the light.

“That’s enough. Did you get tortillas?”

Daniel stopped and looked toward the grocery bag on the floor. “I got chips.”

Maya set down the knife. “You were standing in the tortilla aisle.”

“I was distracted by the sale sign.”

She laughed, and he pulled open the freezer. Behind a bag of peas, he found four tortillas folded in their original package. “Dinner is saved.”

They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to know which mistakes were worth arguing about. Missing tortillas on a Tuesday was not one of them.

Daniel drained a can of black beans and warmed them in a saucepan with cumin and salt. Maya pushed the chopped pepper and onion into a skillet. The burner clicked several times before catching.

“Maintenance still hasn’t fixed that,” she said.

“I’ll email them again.”

“You said that Friday.”

“I’ll do it while the beans heat.”

He did, leaning against the counter and typing with one thumb. Maya added two eggs to the vegetables and stirred. They had planned on chicken, but neither had remembered to thaw it.

A few minutes later, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. Each tortilla held eggs, beans, vegetables, shredded cheese, and the last spoonfuls of salsa. Daniel brought the chips too.

Maya took a bite and nodded. “Better than chicken.”

“Definitely cheaper.”

Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley. Daniel asked whether she needed the car Thursday, and Maya reminded him about her dentist appointment. They compared schedules, agreed he would work from home, and split the last tortilla.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftover beans for lunch while Daniel washed the skillet. She dried it and returned it to the cabinet. The whole meal had taken half an hour, including the forgotten tortillas, and by seven-fifteen they were on the couch, deciding whose turn it was to choose what to watch.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect Maya standing at the stove. She stirred a pot of rice while listening to the local news from a small speaker on the counter.

“Do we have any broccoli left?” Daniel asked, leaning into the refrigerator.

“Bottom drawer, unless it became soup.”

He found a slightly wilted crown and held it up. “Still legally a vegetable.”

They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for eleven months, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Maya usually cooked rice because Daniel always lifted the lid too early. Daniel handled anything involving the oven, partly because Maya forgot to set timers.

Tonight’s plan was chicken, rice, and whatever vegetable had survived the week. Daniel cut the broccoli into uneven florets while Maya trimmed two chicken breasts and seasoned them with salt, pepper, and paprika.

“Small pieces,” she said, glancing at his cutting board.

“They are small.”

“That one could have its own ZIP code.”

Daniel split the floret in half. “Happy?”

“Deeply.”

He spread the broccoli on a sheet pan, added olive oil, and slid it into the oven beside the chicken. Maya rinsed the knife and wiped the counter. When the rice began to hiss, she lowered the heat and set a timer on her phone.

They ate at the small table near the living room, with unopened mail pushed to one side. Daniel poured hot sauce over his chicken. Maya tried a piece of broccoli and nodded.

“Not bad for something nearly deceased.”

They talked about ordinary things: her meeting that ran late, his car’s warning light, whether they could postpone grocery shopping until Saturday. Daniel offered to stop for milk in the morning. Maya reminded him they also needed coffee.

After dinner, she packed the extra rice and chicken into two containers for lunch. Daniel carried the plates to the sink and started the water.

“You wash, I dry?” he asked.

Maya picked up a towel. “Only if you admit I was right about the broccoli.”

He handed her a wet fork. “I admit it needed supervision.”


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 beside the door.

“What do we have?” he asked.

“Half a bag of spinach, eggs, and that rice from Sunday.”

Daniel looked over her shoulder. “Fried rice?”

“If you chop the onion.”

He washed his hands while Maya set a skillet on the stove. Their apartment was small enough that they had to negotiate space without discussing it. She stepped aside so he could reach the cutting board; he moved the dog’s water bowl after she nearly kicked it.

Daniel diced the onion and found two carrots in the produce drawer. One was slightly soft, but he peeled it anyway. Maya broke three eggs into a bowl, added salt, and whisked them with a fork.

“Soy sauce?” she asked.

“Almost empty.”

“Put it on the list.”

He opened the grocery app on his phone, added soy sauce, then added coffee after checking the cabinet. Meanwhile, Maya scrambled the eggs and slid them onto a plate. Daniel cooked the vegetables, stirring until the onions turned translucent. They added the cold rice, spinach, eggs, and the last of the soy sauce.

“Needs something,” Maya said after tasting it.

Daniel handed her the bottle of hot sauce. “This fixes most things.”

They carried their bowls to the small table by the window. Daniel filled two glasses with tap water while Maya wiped a smear of rice from the counter. The dog settled under her chair.

They ate with the local news playing quietly from a speaker. Daniel mentioned a meeting scheduled for eight the next morning. Maya reminded him that her sister was visiting Saturday and asked whether they should clean Friday night or Saturday morning.

“Friday,” he said. “Then we won’t spend all Saturday arguing about cleaning.”

“We don’t argue.”

“We negotiate loudly.”

She smiled and gave him the last bite of egg from her bowl. Afterward, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Neither of them said anything about dessert until Maya found two cookies in the back of the cabinet, and they split them at the sink.


By six-thirty, Leah had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Outside their apartment window, traffic crept along the wet street.

“Ten minutes,” she said. “That’s manageable.”

Marcus opened the refrigerator and surveyed the shelves. “We have one zucchini, half an onion, and chicken that needs to be cooked tonight.”

“Then we’re having all of that.”

He set the chicken on the counter while Leah filled a saucepan with water. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. Marcus found the cutting board; Leah reached past him for the olive oil. When he started slicing the onion, she turned on the vent fan.

“Thank you,” she said. “I have an early meeting. I don’t want to smell like onions.”

“You always say that, and you never smell like onions.”

“You’re used to it.”

Marcus cut the zucchini into uneven half-moons while Leah seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. They debated using the skillet or the sheet pan. The skillet won because the oven took too long to heat.

As the chicken cooked, Leah stirred the vegetables and checked the couscous directions again. Marcus rinsed two plates from breakfast that had been left in the sink, then wiped the small table with a damp paper towel.

“Do we have lemons?” Leah asked.

“One questionable lime.”

They inspected it together. It was wrinkled but not moldy, so Marcus cut it in half and squeezed it over the vegetables.

They ate at the table with the television off. The chicken was slightly dry, and the couscous had clumped, but the lime helped.

“Better than takeout,” Marcus said.

“Cheaper than takeout,” Leah corrected.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers into a container for her lunch. She washed the skillet while he dried the plates. When they finished, Leah turned off the kitchen light, and Marcus checked that the refrigerator door had closed completely.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice bag. Mark came in from the balcony carrying the basil plant they kept forgetting to water.

“It’s still alive,” he announced.

“Barely. Can you chop the onion?”

He set the plant by the sink and found the cutting board. They had agreed on tacos that morning, but neither had remembered to thaw the ground turkey. Lena opened the refrigerator and took inventory: half a bell pepper, six eggs, shredded cheese, and a container of rice from Sunday.

“Breakfast tacos?” she suggested.

Mark looked at the frozen package of turkey on the counter. “Better than waiting an hour.”

While he diced the onion and pepper, Lena warmed tortillas in a dry skillet. The smoke detector chirped once when a tortilla browned too quickly. Mark waved a dish towel beneath it while Lena turned on the vent.

“That thing is dramatic,” he said.

“It learned from you.”

He laughed and slid the vegetables into another pan. Lena cracked eggs into a bowl, added salt, and whisked them with a fork. They discussed whether to use the last of the salsa. Mark wanted to save it for lunches; Lena pointed out that salsa was inexpensive and they were going grocery shopping tomorrow. He conceded and spooned it into a small bowl.

They ate at the narrow table beside the living room window. Mark assembled his tacos neatly, folding each one before taking a bite. Lena piled hers too high and caught a piece of egg with her hand.

“Good call,” he said. “On the eggs.”

“Good chopping,” she replied.

Afterward, Lena packed the leftover filling into a container while Mark washed the pans. She wiped the table, then added salsa and onions to the grocery list stuck to the refrigerator.

“Coffee?” Mark asked, holding up the empty bag.

Lena wrote it down. “And something that counts as a vegetable.”

He glanced at the basil plant.

“That does not count,” she said.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions from the unit downstairs. Maya stood in front of the open refrigerator, shifting a carton of eggs and a jar of pickles as if something better might appear behind them.

“We have chicken,” she called.

From the living room, Daniel said, “Is it still chicken if it’s frozen solid?”

Maya checked the package. “Technically.”

Daniel came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that neither of them wanted to make an elaborate dinner on a Tuesday. He opened the pantry and took inventory: rice, canned tomatoes, black beans, half a bag of tortilla chips.

“Rice bowls?” he suggested.

“With the chicken?”

“With beans. The chicken can remain a future problem.”

Maya nodded and filled a saucepan with water while Daniel rinsed the rice. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading places at the sink and stove without discussion. Maya opened the beans and seasoned them with cumin and garlic powder. Daniel found an avocado that was soft but not yet brown.

“Use the whole thing?” he asked.

“We’ll forget the other half.”

“Good point.”

While the rice simmered, Maya changed out of her work clothes. When she returned in sweatpants, Daniel was cutting the avocado directly on a dinner plate.

“You know we own a cutting board.”

“It’s in the dishwasher.”

“The dishwasher is clean.”

He paused. “That explains the lack of forks.”

They unloaded it together, putting away only what they needed and leaving the rest on the counter. Maya warmed the beans; Daniel crushed tortilla chips over two bowls. They added rice, salsa, avocado, and shredded cheese.

At the small table by the window, Daniel took a bite and reached for the hot sauce.

“How was your meeting?” Maya asked.

“Long. How was your dentist appointment?”

“Expensive.”

They ate while traffic hissed on the wet street below. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch, and Daniel washed the saucepan. Neither meal nor conversation had been remarkable, but the apartment felt settled around them, warm and briefly quiet.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions from the unit downstairs. Maya stood in front of the open refrigerator, moving a jar of pickles aside as if dinner might be hiding behind it.

“We have chicken,” she called.

From the living room, Daniel said, “Is it still good?”

Maya checked the date, then opened the package and sniffed. “It’s good.”

Daniel came in, loosening the tie he wore for video meetings even though he worked ten feet from the kitchen. He set two chicken breasts on a cutting board while Maya found a bag of green beans and three small potatoes.

“Sheet pan?” he asked.

“Less cleanup.”

They had been living together for eleven months, long enough to agree that cleanup mattered more on Tuesdays. Daniel heated the oven and cut the potatoes into uneven cubes. Maya trimmed the beans, dropping the ends into an empty yogurt container.

“Those are huge,” she said, pointing at the potatoes.

“They’ll shrink.”

“They won’t shrink enough to cook faster.”

He sighed theatrically but cut them smaller. Maya mixed olive oil, garlic powder, salt, and paprika in a bowl. Daniel tossed the vegetables in it, then used what remained to coat the chicken.

While dinner roasted, Maya opened the mail. There was an electric bill, a grocery coupon, and an envelope addressed to the previous tenant. Daniel washed the cutting board and knife. They discussed whether to renew their lease in August. Maya liked the neighborhood; Daniel disliked the rent increase. Neither had a solution, so they agreed to look at listings over the weekend.

The smoke alarm chirped when Maya opened the oven. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while she checked the chicken with the thermometer.

At the small table, they divided the crispest potatoes without pretending not to count them. The green beans were slightly wrinkled, the chicken a little dry.

“Needs lemon,” Maya said.

“We don’t have lemon.”

Daniel brought over the bottle of hot sauce instead. Maya tried it and nodded. Outside, a bus groaned at the corner. They ate quietly for a minute, tired and hungry, then began deciding whose turn it was to pack the leftovers.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Daniel came in behind her carrying the mail.

“We have chicken,” she said, moving a carton of eggs aside. “And half a bag of spinach that’s becoming a science project.”

Daniel set the mail on the counter. “Chicken, spinach, rice?”

“That sounds responsible.”

“It sounds fast.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. The kitchen was narrow enough that when Daniel reached for the cutting board, Maya had to step aside. She started the rice while he trimmed the chicken thighs, dropping scraps into an empty grocery bag.

“Garlic?” he asked.

“Always.”

Maya peeled three cloves and chopped them. Daniel heated oil in the skillet, then added the chicken. It hissed loudly, and he turned on the vent fan, which rattled but did little else.

While the chicken browned, Maya sorted through the spinach, throwing away the slimy leaves. Daniel opened the mail and read out the electric bill.

“That’s higher,” he said.

“We ran the air conditioner all last week.”

“We could turn it up two degrees.”

“We could,” Maya said, in a tone that meant they probably would not.

Daniel laughed and flipped the chicken. Maya added garlic and spinach to the pan, stirring until the leaves collapsed. They debated whether the meal needed soy sauce or lemon. Lemon won because there was one drying out in the fruit bowl.

They ate at the small table by the window. Daniel added hot sauce to his rice. Maya tasted hers first, then did the same.

“This is good,” he said.

“It needed more salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Maya washed the skillet while he dried the plates and put them away. They discussed a friend’s weekend barbecue, whether they needed gas, and whose turn it was to buy coffee.

By seven-fifteen, the kitchen was clean except for the rice cooker, still warm on the counter. Maya switched off the light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room.


At six fifteen, Maya closed her laptop at the dining table and listened to the pipes knock as Daniel washed his hands in the kitchen. They had been living together for eight months, long enough to know which sounds meant the upstairs neighbor and which meant their own aging plumbing.

“What do we have?” Daniel asked, opening the refrigerator.

Maya joined him. Inside were two chicken breasts, half a bag of spinach, a lemon, and a container of rice from Sunday.

“Chicken bowls?” she suggested.

“With the sad spinach?”

“It’s not sad. It’s tired.”

Daniel took out the chicken while Maya set the rice on the counter. He wanted to use the cast-iron skillet, but she pointed out that it still needed seasoning after he had soaked it the week before.

“I apologized to the pan,” he said, reaching for the stainless-steel one.

Maya sliced the lemon and mixed juice with olive oil, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Daniel trimmed the chicken, then wiped the cutting board immediately because he knew raw chicken made her nervous. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the only sharp knife and opening drawers with their hips.

While the chicken cooked, Maya warmed the rice in the microwave with a spoonful of water. Daniel sautéed the spinach in the same pan, adding red pepper flakes without asking.

“Not too much,” she warned.

“It’s barely any.”

She tasted a leaf and gave him a look. He laughed and added a squeeze of lemon to soften the heat.

They ate at the small table, their bowls balanced between a pile of mail and Maya’s laptop. Daniel asked whether they should renew their lease when it came up in June. Maya said yes, probably, though she wanted to ask the landlord about the bedroom window first.

They discussed the rent, the commute, and whether “probably” counted as an answer. Then Daniel divided the last pieces of chicken between them.

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers for his lunch. Daniel washed the skillet carefully, holding it up for inspection before setting it in the drying rack.


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. Marcus came in from walking the dog, hung the leash by the door, and opened the refrigerator.

“We have half a pepper, two eggs, and those green beans,” he said.

“And chicken,” Lena reminded him. “Bottom shelf.”

Marcus found the package and checked the date. “Today. Good timing.”

They decided on chicken, rice, and green beans, mostly because it required no trip to the store. Lena measured the rice while Marcus trimmed the beans over the sink. Their apartment kitchen was narrow, so they kept shifting around each other—Lena stepping aside for the trash, Marcus reaching past her for the salt.

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

“Scheduled it this morning.”

“With the joint account?”

He paused. “No. Mine. I forgot.”

Lena turned down the burner. “We can fix it next month.”

Marcus cut the chicken into uneven pieces and seasoned them with garlic powder, pepper, and too much paprika. When he dropped them into the skillet, oil snapped against his wrist.

“You okay?” Lena asked.

“Fine,” he said, running his hand under cold water anyway.

She took over the skillet while he put the green beans in a pot with a little butter. They talked about her meeting, his mother’s upcoming birthday, and whether the bathroom faucet was getting worse. Neither wanted to call the landlord, but they agreed Marcus would do it tomorrow.

The rice finished first. Lena fluffed it with a fork while Marcus checked the thickest piece of chicken, cutting it open to make sure it was cooked through.

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken was a little dry, and the beans were still crisp, but both went back for seconds.

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into one container for Lena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he dried the plates.

“Tea?” he asked.

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

He filled the kettle and set it on the stove.


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, unclipped the leash, and hung his jacket over the back of a chair.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“Chicken, rice, and these,” Maya said, holding up the bag. “Unless you have a more exciting idea.”

Ben opened the refrigerator and studied its contents as if something new might appear. “We have half a lemon.”

“That’s not an idea.”

“It’s the beginning of one.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Maya trimmed two chicken breasts while Ben rinsed rice and measured water into a saucepan. He reached past her for the salt, and she moved the cutting board without being asked. They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough to know the small choreography, though not always gracefully.

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

Ben paused with the salt shaker in his hand. “I thought it was on autopay.”

“It declined. The card expired.”

He set the rice on the stove and pulled out his phone. “I’ll fix it now.”

While he updated the account, Maya seasoned the chicken with paprika, garlic powder, and too much pepper. Ben noticed but said nothing. Instead, he squeezed the lemon into a bowl and whisked it with olive oil for the beans.

Twenty-five minutes later, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. The rice was slightly sticky, and the chicken had browned unevenly, but the beans were better than expected.

“This sauce is good,” Maya said.

“It’s the beginning of an idea,” Ben reminded her.

She smiled and nudged his foot under the table. They ate while comparing schedules for the weekend and deciding who would buy dog food. Outside, headlights moved across the blinds. When they finished, Ben gathered the plates, and Maya packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch and another for hers.


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 dumplings. Marcus came in from walking the dog, carrying the mail under one arm.

“Twenty minutes in the oven,” she said. “Or ten in a skillet.”

“Skillet,” Marcus replied, unclipping Rosie’s leash. “I’m hungry now.”

Leah set a pan on the stove while Marcus sorted the mail into a recycling pile and a smaller stack that looked important. They had lived in the apartment for two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop getting in each other’s way. When Marcus opened the refrigerator, Leah had to step aside with the oil bottle.

“Do we have broccoli?” he asked.

“Bottom drawer.”

He found half a head, slightly soft at the edges, and began cutting it into uneven florets. Leah arranged the dumplings in the hot pan. They hissed, and she jumped back.

“Lid,” Marcus said.

“I know. I was getting there.”

He smiled and handed it to her.

While the dumplings steamed, Marcus microwaved the broccoli with a spoonful of water. Leah mixed soy sauce, rice vinegar, and the last of a jar of chili crisp in a cereal bowl. They debated making rice, but the cooker would take too long, and neither wanted another pot to wash.

They ate at the small table by the window. Rosie settled beneath them, hopeful and alert. Marcus told Leah about a meeting that had lasted ninety minutes without producing a decision. Leah described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice.

One dumpling split when Marcus picked it up, spilling filling onto his plate.

“That one’s yours,” Leah said.

“They’re all ours. We live together.”

“That’s not legally binding.”

After dinner, Marcus washed the pan while Leah packed the remaining dumplings into a container for his lunch. She wiped the counter, checked that the stove was off, and added broccoli to the grocery list on the refrigerator.

“More chili crisp, too,” Marcus said.

Leah wrote it down. Then they turned off the kitchen light and took Rosie out together.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys into the blue bowl by the door, and opened the refrigerator. Half a rotisserie chicken sat beside a container of rice from Sunday. There were also two bell peppers beginning to wrinkle.

She texted Daniel: **Chicken bowls? We need cilantro.**

His reply came while she was changing out of her work clothes. **On it. Salsa too?**

**Medium, not the fire one.**

By the time Daniel arrived, carrying a grocery bag and the mail tucked under his arm, Maya had sliced the peppers and started them in a skillet with half an onion. The apartment smelled sweet and smoky. He kissed her cheek, then held up two jars.

“I forgot which medium you like.”

“You bought both?”

“They were on sale.”

Maya looked at the receipt. “They were absolutely not on sale.”

Daniel checked it, sighed, and put one jar in the pantry. “Future salsa.”

He washed the cilantro while Maya pulled the chicken from the bones. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced small adjustments: she stepped aside so he could reach the trash; he shifted the cutting board before she set down the hot skillet. When the rice came out of the microwave dry, Daniel sprinkled water over it and covered it again.

“That actually works?” Maya asked.

“My mother has been right about several things.”

They assembled their bowls differently. Maya added extra peppers, a spoonful of salsa, and a squeeze of lime. Daniel piled on cheese and forgot the cilantro until she pointed to it.

They ate at the small table by the window. A bus groaned to a stop below, and someone’s dog barked in the hallway. Daniel sorted the mail between bites, placing a utility bill near Maya and recycling two catalogs.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“One episode of something,” she said. “Then I have emails.”

He nodded. “I’ll do the dishes.”

“You cooked the rice.”

“The microwave cooked the rice.”

After dinner, Maya packed the remaining chicken into a container for lunch. Daniel filled the sink with soapy water, and they argued mildly about whether the second jar of salsa counted as stocking up or making a mistake.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Marcus came in from the hallway carrying the mail and dropped it on the counter beside her.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Grocery coupons. Something for the previous tenant.”

Nina opened the refrigerator. “We have half a zucchini, mushrooms, and that spinach you said you’d eat.”

“I did eat some.”

“You bought it nine days ago.”

Marcus smiled and pulled a cutting board from the cabinet. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which small accusations were serious and which were invitations to help. He rinsed the vegetables while Nina filled a pot with water.

“Penne or spaghetti?” she asked.

“Penne. Less dangerous with a white shirt.”

“You could change.”

“That sounds like extra work.”

While the water heated, Marcus sliced the mushrooms. Nina cut away the soft end of the zucchini and chopped the rest. They disagreed briefly about whether the spinach was still good, then settled it by smelling it. Marcus threw away two slimy leaves and declared the remainder acceptable.

Nina sautéed the vegetables with olive oil and garlic. Marcus poured in the sauce, then added a splash of water to the jar, shook it, and emptied that too.

“My mother does that,” Nina said.

“Your mother is efficient.”

“My mother is watching you through me.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with grated Parmesan from a green plastic container. Outside, a neighbor walked a terrier past the same patch of grass three times.

Marcus tasted the pasta. “Needs pepper.”

“It has pepper.”

“It needs more.”

He got up for the grinder and refilled Nina’s water on the way back. She nudged the bowl of spinach-heavy pasta toward him.

“You said you’d eat it,” she reminded him.

Marcus took another serving. “I am eating it.”

Afterward, Nina packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the pot. They left the plates in the drying rack, turned off the kitchen light, and carried the unopened mail to the couch.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Marcus came in from walking the dog, dropped the leash on its hook, and joined her.

“We have chicken,” she said.

“We always have chicken.”

“We also have half a bag of spinach that’s becoming a science project.”

Marcus pulled out the spinach and inspected it. “Still edible. Mostly.”

They decided on pasta with chicken, spinach, and the last of a jar of pesto. Elena filled a pot with water while Marcus set a skillet on the stove. Their apartment kitchen was narrow, so they kept bumping elbows as they moved between the counter and sink.

“You cut, I cook?” Marcus asked.

“You burn, I supervise,” Elena said, handing him the cutting board.

He sliced the chicken into uneven strips while she minced two cloves of garlic. When the skillet was hot, he added olive oil, then the chicken. It hissed loudly enough to send the dog out of the kitchen.

Elena salted the pasta water and checked the mail on the counter: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and an envelope addressed to a former tenant. Marcus asked whether they should go shopping Thursday or Friday. She preferred Thursday because her sister might visit Friday. He opened the shared calendar on his phone and added it.

When the pasta was nearly done, Elena stirred the spinach into the skillet. Marcus drained the noodles, forgetting to save any pasta water.

“I told myself not to forget,” he said.

“It’ll survive.”

They mixed everything with the pesto and divided it between two chipped blue bowls. Marcus grated Parmesan over both, then added more to his.

They ate at the small table by the window, talking about a problem with Elena’s manager and a podcast Marcus had listened to on his commute. Halfway through dinner, he got up for hot sauce. Elena tried it too and admitted it helped.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet and pot. He left them in the drying rack, and she wiped the stove.

“Not bad for emergency spinach,” he said.

Elena looked at the empty bowls. “Thursday,” she reminded him. “We’re buying vegetables.”


By six-thirty, Marisol had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce.

“It expired last month,” she said.

Evan looked up from the cutting board. “Expired, or best by?”

“Best by.”

He leaned over to inspect the jar, then shrugged. “It’s probably fine.”

“That’s what you said about the yogurt.”

“The yogurt was fine.”

“You didn’t eat it.”

“I was saving it for you.”

Marisol laughed and opened the jar. It smelled normal. She poured it into a saucepan while Evan sliced a zucchini they had forgotten in the crisper. One end had gone soft, so he cut that part off and held up the rest for approval.

“Acceptable?” he asked.

“Thin slices. It’ll cook faster.”

Their apartment’s kitchen was narrow, and they kept bumping hips as they moved between the stove and counter. Evan boiled water for spaghetti while Marisol sautéed the zucchini with garlic and the last handful of spinach. She added the sauce, tasted it, and reached for the red pepper flakes.

“Not too much,” Evan said.

“You say that every time.”

“And every time, you ignore me.”

She sprinkled in less than she wanted. He grated Parmesan into a chipped blue bowl and set two places at the small table near the window. Outside, someone was walking a beagle in the fading light.

When the pasta was ready, Evan drained it while Marisol held the colander steady. They divided everything unevenly, giving him more noodles and her more vegetables.

They ate with the television off. Evan described a confusing meeting at work, and Marisol reminded him twice to send their landlord a photo of the leaking bathroom faucet. He took out his phone and did it before he forgot again.

The sauce was a little sweet, and the zucchini was softer than either preferred, but they finished nearly all of it.

“I’ll wash,” Evan said, gathering the plates.

“I’ll dry,” Marisol replied.

“You hate drying.”

“I hate waking up to dishes more.”


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Marcus came in from walking the dog, carrying a damp leash and a paper bag from the corner market.

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

“Better, honestly.” Nina measured rice into a saucepan. “Did you get garlic?”

Marcus pulled out a bulb with a flourish, followed by two limes and a chocolate bar.

“The essentials.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Nina started the rice and sliced chicken breasts into strips. Marcus washed the green beans, snapping off the ends and dropping them into a colander. Their dog, Pepper, stationed herself between them, hopeful but mostly in the way.

“Can you move her?” Nina asked, reaching for the soy sauce.

Marcus nudged Pepper toward the living room with his knee. “You heard the chef.”

“You called me the chef last week when you burned the quesadillas.”

“I was supporting your career.”

Nina laughed and handed him the cutting board. He minced the garlic while she mixed soy sauce, lime juice, and a spoonful of brown sugar in a chipped measuring cup. They debated adding red pepper flakes, then agreed to sprinkle them on their own plates.

The chicken hissed when Nina tipped it into the hot skillet. Marcus added the beans a few minutes later and stirred while she wiped the counter and packed leftover rice into a container for lunch. When the sauce thickened, he tasted it and added another squeeze of lime.

They ate at the small table beside the window, their phones left charging on the kitchen counter. Marcus described a problem with a client; Nina told him about a coworker’s retirement party. Pepper rested her chin on Marcus’s foot.

“This is good,” he said, taking another bite.

“Green beans were the right call.”

“I’ll tell the grocery store.”

Afterward, Nina filled the sink while Marcus divided the remaining chicken into two lunch containers. They shared the chocolate standing at the counter, each taking alternating squares, before starting the dishes.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Marcus came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to a person who hasn’t lived here in at least four years.”

He opened the refrigerator and studied its contents. They had planned to make chicken, but neither had remembered to thaw it.

“We could do eggs,” Marcus said.

Elena looked at the half carton. “Only three.”

“Three is enough if we make everything else.”

Together they assembled dinner from what they had: couscous, scrambled eggs, and the last zucchini. Elena measured water into a saucepan while Marcus sliced the zucchini into uneven half-moons. He heated oil in the skillet, added the vegetables, and stepped back when they hissed.

“Salt?” he asked.

“More than you think, less than you want.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

“It’s guidance.”

While the couscous steamed, Elena whisked the eggs with a fork. Marcus found half an onion in a plastic container and trimmed away a dry edge. They debated whether it was still good, smelled it, and decided it was. He chopped it and added it to the skillet.

They ate at the small table by the window, where the mail had been pushed into a stack. Marcus put hot sauce on his eggs. Elena mixed hers into the couscous.

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

“It’s cheaper than ordering pizza.”

“I said better.”

He considered the plate. “Both can be true.”

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers into one container for her lunch. Marcus washed the skillet, and she dried it because their dish rack was full. They discussed the electric bill, agreed to run the dishwasher before bed, and added eggs, onions, and chicken to the grocery list on the refrigerator. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk. Inside, Marcus wiped the counter while Elena started the kettle for tea.


Maya heard the apartment door open while she was rinsing rice in the kitchen.

“Hey,” Daniel called, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. “Something smells good.”

“That’s the neighbor’s laundry detergent,” Maya said. “I just started cooking.”

Daniel came in, still wearing his office badge. He opened the refrigerator and stared inside.

“We have half a pepper, two eggs, and broccoli that’s becoming a science project.”

“It’s not that bad.” Maya took the broccoli from him and examined the yellowing edges. “Mostly not that bad.”

They had planned to make chicken and rice, but the chicken was still frozen. Daniel suggested ordering Thai food. Maya pointed to the whiteboard on the refrigerator, where they had written “SAVE MONEY” in blue marker after reviewing their credit card bill on Sunday.

“Eggs and vegetables?” she proposed.

“With rice?”

“With rice.”

Daniel loosened his tie and began cutting the pepper. Maya measured water into the rice cooker. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate every movement.

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

“Wait, I need the drawer.”

“You always need the drawer when I’m standing here.”

“You always stand in front of the drawer.”

He moved, smiling, and she bumped his hip with hers as she passed.

They trimmed the broccoli, keeping more of it than either initially thought they would. Daniel scrambled the eggs with soy sauce while Maya stir-fried the vegetables with garlic. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it, and Maya opened the window over the sink.

They ate at the small table beside the living room, bowls balanced on mismatched placemats. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the broccoli stems were tougher than expected.

“It needs hot sauce,” Daniel said.

“Everything needs hot sauce to you.”

He brought the bottle anyway and set it between them. Maya took it first.

They discussed rent, Daniel’s meeting the next morning, and whether they could postpone doing laundry until Thursday. Afterward, he washed the dishes while she packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch and one for hers.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of toasted cumin and the rain coming through the open kitchen window. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We have half an onion,” he announced, holding it up.

“That’s enough. Did you find the cilantro?”

Daniel lifted a wilted bunch from the crisper. “Technically.”

They were making tacos because the chicken needed to be cooked and neither of them wanted to spend forty minutes on dinner. Maya heated a skillet while Daniel trimmed the cilantro, discarding more than he saved. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of people who had shared the space for three years.

“Can you open the beans?” Maya asked.

Daniel rinsed them in a colander, then set the table while she cooked the chicken with onion, pepper, and spices. He put out two mismatched plates, forks, hot sauce, and the stack of mail they had agreed not to leave there.

Maya pointed with the spatula. “Mail.”

“Right.” He moved it to the bookshelf, where it joined yesterday’s mail.

When the chicken was done, Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. One caught at the edge.

“That one’s yours,” Maya said.

“I like them charred.”

“You like not admitting mistakes.”

They carried everything to the table in bowls. Daniel opened two cans of seltzer, and Maya divided the last avocado, giving him the larger half because he had skipped lunch.

They ate while discussing whether to renew their lease. The rent increase was manageable, Daniel thought, but Maya wanted a place with laundry in the building. They did not settle it. Instead, they agreed to look at listings on Saturday.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Daniel washed the skillet and handed it to her to dry. The rain had strengthened, tapping steadily against the window. When the kitchen was clean enough, they each took a seltzer to the couch and left the unopened mail for another evening.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Marcus came in from walking the dog, unclipped the leash, and nudged the door shut with his heel.

“Rain?” Elena asked.

“Not yet, but it’s coming.” He hung the leash on its hook. “What are we making?”

She held up the jar. “Spaghetti, unless you want tacos.”

Marcus opened the refrigerator and surveyed the shelves. “We don’t have tortillas.”

“Then the decision has been made for us.”

While Elena filled a pot with water, Marcus found half an onion and a package of mushrooms. He sliced both at the narrow counter beside the stove, pushing the scraps into a small bowl for compost. Elena added salt to the water, then wiped up the drops she had splashed across the burner.

“Did you call the landlord?” she asked.

“I emailed. He said someone can look at the bathroom fan Friday.”

“Friday when?”

Marcus paused. “He didn’t say.”

Elena gave him a look, and he picked up his phone. “I’ll ask.”

The onions hissed when he tipped them into a skillet. Elena stirred the pasta and set two bowls on the table, moving a stack of unopened mail to the empty chair. Marcus added the sauce to the mushrooms, tasted it, and reached for red pepper flakes.

“Not too much,” she said.

“I know.”

“You always say that.”

He shook in a cautious amount, then handed her the spoon. She tasted and nodded.

They ate at the small table by the window. Rain began tapping against the glass, and the dog settled under Marcus’s chair, hopeful for anything dropped.

Elena mentioned a meeting scheduled too early the next morning. Marcus told her his sister had invited them to a birthday lunch on Sunday. They compared calendars and agreed they could go if they did laundry Saturday.

After dinner, Marcus packed the leftovers into a plastic container while Elena washed the pot. He dried the plates and put them away. Neither of them wanted to take out the trash in the rain, so they decided it could wait until morning.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a bag of frozen green beans. Marcus came in from walking the dog, unclipped the leash, and set his keys in the blue bowl by the door.

“Pasta?” he asked.

“Pasta,” Nina said. “Unless you have a better idea.”

He opened the refrigerator and inspected a container of leftover rice, half an onion, and three eggs. “No better ideas.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of practice. Nina filled a pot and turned on the burner while Marcus chopped the onion. When his eyes began watering, he blamed the onion’s “unusual strength,” and Nina pointed out that he said that every time.

She found a jar of tomato sauce in the pantry. “This one has mushrooms.”

“That’s fine.”

“You said last time it was too sweet.”

“I’ll add pepper.”

While the sauce warmed, Marcus poured the green beans into a skillet with olive oil and garlic. Nina dropped spaghetti into the boiling water, then leaned against the counter to answer a text from her sister. The dog settled between them, hopeful and inconvenient.

“Move him before one of us falls,” Nina said.

Marcus nudged the dog’s bed closer with his foot and called him over. Then he tasted the sauce, added black pepper, and held out the spoon. Nina tried it.

“Still sweet.”

“Edible, though.”

“Definitely edible.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. Marcus twirled too much spaghetti onto his fork and splashed sauce on his shirt. Nina handed him a napkin without comment.

They discussed whether to renew their lease, whose turn it was to buy coffee, and a new noise in Nina’s car. Marcus offered to look at it Saturday. Nina agreed to call the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while he washed the pot. Neither mentioned dessert until Marcus found two chocolate-covered almonds in the cupboard. He placed one beside her container and ate the other at the sink.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed them both home. Maya stood at the counter, still wearing her office clothes, slicing a yellow pepper into uneven strips. Across the kitchen, Ben opened the refrigerator and stared inside.

“We have half a lemon,” he announced.

“That’s enough.”

“For what?”

Maya paused. “I don’t know yet.”

They had planned to make chicken, rice, and whatever vegetable looked least tired. Ben took out a bag of green beans and inspected them. A few had gone soft, so he snapped off the bad ends while Maya heated oil in their largest skillet.

“Rice?” she asked.

“I’ll do it.”

Ben measured a cup into the dented saucepan, rinsed it twice, then checked the directions on the bag even though they made rice nearly every week. Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. When she laid the pieces in the pan, oil spat onto the stove.

“Could you turn on the fan?”

Ben flipped the switch. The fan rattled loudly, as it always did.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Maya moved the chicken to a plate and added the peppers. Ben trimmed the green beans, dropping them into a colander, then wiped up the water he had splashed across the counter. Together they decided to cook the beans in the skillet instead of using another pot.

While everything finished, Ben set two bowls on the small table by the window. Maya squeezed the lemon over the vegetables and tasted one.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

They ate with the window cracked open, listening to tires hiss on the wet street below. The rice was slightly undercooked, and one piece of chicken was drier than the others, but neither complained. Ben told Maya about a confusing email from his manager. She described getting stuck in the elevator with a delivery cart.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben washed the skillet. He handed her the last container.

“Same thing tomorrow?”

“For lunch,” she said. “Not dinner.”

“Agreed.”


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and one pepper that’s starting to wrinkle.”

From the living room, Marcus closed his laptop. “Tacos?”

“We had tacos yesterday.”

“Those were lunch tacos.”

Lena looked over her shoulder. “That distinction exists only to you.”

They settled on pasta. Marcus filled a pot with water while Lena sliced the pepper and trimmed a gray spot from one end. Their apartment kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other. When Marcus opened the silverware drawer, Lena stepped sideways with the cutting board held against her chest.

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

“Thank you for the warning.”

He turned on the wrong burner, noticed after a minute, and quietly corrected it. Lena saw but didn’t say anything. She heated olive oil in a skillet and cut the chicken into strips. Marcus found a box of penne in the cabinet with barely enough left for two.

“Should I make all of it?”

“If we don’t, we’ll just have an insulting amount left.”

While the chicken cooked, Marcus washed the knife and board. Lena added garlic, the pepper, and spinach, which filled the skillet before collapsing into a dark green layer. They debated whether the open jar of sauce was still good. Marcus checked the date; Lena smelled it. Both tests passed.

They ate at the small table by the window, their bowls mismatched. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley.

“The pepper’s fine,” Marcus said.

“It was on its last day.”

“Like a library book.”

Lena pushed the grated Parmesan toward him. They talked about her morning meeting, his dentist appointment, and whether they could wait another week to buy laundry detergent.

Afterward, Marcus packed the remaining pasta into one container for Lena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he wiped the stove, brushing stray salt into his palm. By seven-thirty, the kitchen was clean, and they carried their water glasses to the couch.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Ben came in from walking their dog, Pepper, shaking rain from his jacket.

“She refused to go past the mailbox,” he said, unclipping the leash.

Pepper trotted to her water bowl and looked satisfied with the decision.

Maya opened the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a zucchini, and that spinach we keep pretending isn’t getting old.”

Ben inspected the bag. “It’s still mostly spinach.”

“Good enough.”

They divided the work without discussing it. Maya cut the chicken into pieces and warmed oil in a skillet. Ben sliced the zucchini, then picked yellow leaves from the spinach. When Maya reached for the garlic, she found one soft clove in the paper wrapper.

“Garlic powder?” she asked.

Ben held up the jar. “Weeknight rules.”

He seasoned the vegetables while she browned the chicken. The kitchen fan rattled overhead, barely clearing the smell of hot oil. On the counter, Maya’s phone buzzed twice with work messages. She turned it facedown.

“Do we need to answer your sister about Saturday?” Ben asked.

“We do,” Maya said. “But not while I’m holding raw chicken.”

The couscous was ready before everything else, so Ben fluffed it with a fork and covered the pot again. Maya added the spinach to the skillet in handfuls. It looked like too much, then collapsed almost immediately.

They ate at the small table by the window, bowls balanced between a stack of unopened mail and Pepper’s treat jar. Ben added hot sauce. Maya squeezed the last wedge of lemon over hers.

“This is better than takeout,” he said.

“It’s cheaper than takeout.”

“Also true.”

They discussed Saturday, decided to visit his sister in the afternoon, and agreed Ben would text her. After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Ben washed the skillet while she dried it, and Pepper waited beneath them for something to fall.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding a package of chicken thighs.

“These need to be cooked tonight,” she said. “Or frozen.”

From the kitchen table, where he was finishing an email, Daniel looked over. “Cooked sounds better.”

“That’s not a meal plan.”

“It’s the beginning of one.”

Maya found half a lemon, a small bunch of parsley, and a container of rice from Sunday. Daniel closed his laptop and joined her at the counter. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that dinner usually came together faster if one person made decisions and the other started chopping.

“I’ll do the chicken,” he said. “You handle vegetables?”

They had broccoli, though the tips were beginning to yellow. Maya trimmed the worst parts and cut the stalk into thin coins. Daniel patted the chicken dry, seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika, then heated the cast-iron skillet. When the oil shimmered, he lowered the pieces in, and both of them stepped back from the splatter.

“Fan,” Maya said.

“Already on.”

While the chicken browned, she spread the broccoli on a sheet pan with olive oil and garlic powder. The oven was still preheating, so she washed the cutting board and wiped up a streak of oil near the stove. Daniel flipped the thighs and squeezed the lemon over them.

They debated whether the leftover rice was enough. Maya thought it was; Daniel opened a can of chickpeas as insurance. He warmed both together with a spoonful of water.

At the table, Daniel took the chair facing the kitchen. Maya divided the crispest piece of chicken between them without comment.

“This worked,” he said after a few bites.

“It usually does.”

They talked about the landlord’s email, whether they could delay buying new tires, and what time Maya needed the car Thursday. When they finished, Daniel packed the remaining chicken for lunch. Maya rinsed the plates and loaded the dishwasher, leaving the skillet to soak.

By seven-thirty, the kitchen was mostly clean, and the apartment smelled faintly of lemon and roasted garlic.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, and opened the refrigerator. There was half a bag of spinach, two chicken breasts, and a container of rice from Sunday. She texted Ben: *Dinner plan: stir-fry. Can you grab an onion?*

His reply came while she was changing out of her work clothes. *Yellow or red?*

*Yellow. And maybe soy sauce. We’re almost out.*

By the time Ben arrived, Maya had sliced the chicken and was rinsing the spinach in a colander. He set the grocery bag on the counter and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“They only had the big bottle,” he said, pulling out the soy sauce.

“We’ll use it eventually.”

Ben chopped the onion while Maya heated oil in their wide skillet. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other.

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

“Hot pan,” she warned, stepping aside.

The onion went in first, then the chicken. Ben stirred while Maya microwaved the rice and mixed soy sauce with a spoonful of honey and the last of a jar of chili paste.

“Too spicy?” she asked.

He tasted the sauce from her spoon. “Not for me.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

She added a splash of water.

They folded in the spinach at the end, watching it shrink almost immediately. Ben divided the rice between two bowls, and Maya spooned the stir-fry over it. They carried dinner to the small table by the window, where a stack of unopened mail occupied one chair.

Ben moved the mail to the floor. “We should deal with that tonight.”

Maya sat down. “After we eat.”

They ate with the window cracked, listening to traffic and someone’s dog barking in the courtyard. The chicken was slightly dry, but the sauce helped.

“This is good,” Ben said.

“It’s fine,” Maya replied, then took another bite.

When they finished, he filled the sink with soapy water while she packed the leftovers into one container.

“Lunch?” she asked.

“You take it,” he said. “I have that meeting.”

She labeled the lid with tape, and together they started on the dishes.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the cooking instructions on a bag of rice. Marcus came in from walking the dog, carrying a damp leash and two envelopes he had found in the mailbox.

“Electric bill,” he said, setting them on the counter. “And something trying to sell us windows.”

“We don’t own the windows,” Elena said.

“That has never stopped them.”

Their apartment was small enough that Marcus could talk to her from the entryway while wiping the dog’s paws. Elena measured rice into a saucepan, spilling a few grains onto the stove. She had planned to make chicken tacos, but they were out of tortillas.

“Bowls instead?” she asked.

Marcus opened the refrigerator and surveyed the shelves. “We have half an avocado, salsa, and that corn from Sunday.”

“Check if it smells okay.”

He peeled back the lid. “Smells like corn.”

While the rice simmered, Marcus cut the chicken into strips. Elena sliced a bell pepper and an onion, nudging the onion pieces into a neater pile when they spread across the cutting board. They debated which pan to use, then chose the larger one because it was already clean.

Marcus cooked the chicken while Elena warmed the corn in the microwave and mashed the avocado with lime and salt. When the smoke alarm chirped once, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it.

“You used too much oil,” Elena said.

“The pan was dry.”

“The pan is nonstick.”

They opened the window, laughing when the dog barked at a passing bicycle.

They ate at the narrow table beside the living room, each assembling a bowl from rice, chicken, vegetables, corn, salsa, and avocado. Marcus added hot sauce; Elena stole a piece of chicken from his bowl while he reached for it.

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers for lunch. Marcus washed the pan and handed her the plates to dry. They discussed the electric bill, decided to run the dishwasher in the morning, and left the unopened window advertisement on the counter for recycling.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a zucchini, and something that used to be cilantro.”

From the living room, Marcus closed his laptop. “The cilantro died Sunday.”

“I was being optimistic.”

He joined her at the refrigerator. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to share groceries but not always the same idea of a meal. Nina preferred recipes; Marcus trusted whatever looked usable.

“Chicken tacos?” he suggested.

“No tortillas.”

“Chicken bowls?”

Nina pulled out the zucchini. “With what?”

Marcus opened the pantry and found rice and a can of black beans. “With these. And the emergency salsa.”

The salsa was a jar they kept for nights when neither of them wanted to cook. Nina filled a saucepan with water while Marcus cut the chicken into uneven pieces. She pointed to the cutting board.

“Smaller. Otherwise the outside burns before the middle cooks.”

“Yes, chef.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He cut the larger pieces in half.

While the rice simmered, Nina sliced the zucchini and drained the beans. Marcus heated oil in a skillet, then added the chicken with cumin, garlic powder, salt, and too much smoked paprika.

“That’s going to be spicy,” Nina said.

“You like spicy.”

“I like knowing in advance.”

They opened a window when the skillet began to smoke. The kitchen fan rattled but accomplished little. Nina cooked the zucchini in the same pan after Marcus moved the chicken to a plate. He warmed the beans in the microwave and set out two mismatched bowls.

They ate at the small table beside the window. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the zucchini had gone soft, but the salsa pulled everything together.

Marcus took another bite. “Better than delivery.”

“Cheaper than delivery,” Nina corrected.

He nodded toward the leftovers. “Lunch tomorrow?”

She looked at the single spoonful of rice and three pieces of chicken. “For one of us.”

They both reached for the container, then laughed. Nina let go.

“You cooked the chicken,” she said. “You take it.”

“You made the plan.”

“I’ll make eggs.”

Marcus packed the leftovers while Nina rinsed the bowls. Outside, someone dragged trash bins toward the curb, and upstairs a vacuum started. Their evening settled around them, ordinary and comfortable.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys into the blue bowl by the door, and opened the refrigerator. Half a rotisserie chicken sat on the top shelf beside a container of rice and one slightly wilted bunch of broccoli.

She texted Daniel: **Chicken bowls? We need soy sauce.**

His reply came while she was changing out of her work clothes. **Stopping at the store. Anything else?**

Maya checked the cabinet. **Scallions. Maybe seltzer. Not lime flavor.**

By the time Daniel came in, carrying a paper bag under one arm, Maya had already started the rice in a skillet with a spoonful of water. He set the groceries on the counter and held up a lime seltzer.

“They were out of everything else,” he said.

“You bought the one flavor I specifically rejected.”

“It was this or coconut.”

Maya considered that. “Fine. You made the correct decision.”

Daniel washed the broccoli while she pulled the chicken from the bones. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other.

“Behind you,” he said, reaching for the cutting board.

“Hot pan,” she warned, shifting toward the sink.

He chopped the broccoli into uneven florets. Maya pointed at one the size of a tennis ball.

“That one’s going to be raw in the middle.”

“It has character.”

“It has a trunk.”

He cut it in half, then heated oil in another pan. Maya mixed soy sauce, brown sugar, and a little vinegar in a mug. They debated adding garlic, decided they were too hungry to bother, and poured the sauce over the chicken and broccoli.

They ate at the small table by the window, bowls balanced on mismatched placemats. Daniel told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Maya described the new receptionist who kept calling everyone “friend.”

Halfway through dinner, Daniel got up for the seltzer. He poured it over ice and handed Maya the first glass.

She took a sip. “Still bad.”

“You’re welcome.”

Afterward, she packed the leftovers while he washed the pans. They left the bowls in the drying rack and agreed, without much conviction, that tomorrow they would cook something requiring a recipe.


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, carrying the mail under one arm.

“What do we have?” he asked, unclipping the leash.

“Half a bag of spinach, eggs, and that chicken we cooked Sunday.” Maya lifted a container and inspected it. “Still good, I think.”

Daniel smelled it. “Still good.”

They decided on fried rice. Maya set a pot of leftover rice on the counter while Daniel fed the dog and sorted the mail into recycling and “deal with later.” He found an electric bill and placed it beside Maya’s phone.

“Remind me to pay that tonight.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’m renewing the reminder.”

Maya chopped an onion and the remaining carrots. Daniel pulled the chicken apart with his fingers, dropping bite-sized pieces onto a plate. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought: she stepped aside so he could reach the soy sauce; he closed the drawer she had left open.

When the oil was hot, Daniel cooked the onions while Maya beat three eggs in a cereal bowl. The smoke alarm chirped once, and both of them looked up.

“It’s fine,” Daniel said, opening the window.

“You always say that right before it goes off.”

It didn’t. They added the rice, chicken, spinach, and eggs, then tasted the mixture from separate spoons. Maya wanted more soy sauce. Daniel thought it needed vinegar. They added a little of both.

They ate at the small table near the window. The dog lay between their chairs, hopeful and alert. Daniel described a meeting that should have been an email. Maya told him about a coworker who had brought a parrot to a video call.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Daniel washed the pan and wiped the stove, then paid the electric bill while she dried the bowls.

“Done,” he said, showing her the confirmation screen.

Maya nodded. “I’ll retire yesterday’s reminder.”

They turned off the kitchen light and carried their water glasses into the living room.


Maya got home first and found a text from Ben: **Ten minutes. Don’t order anything.**

She set her bag on the kitchen chair and opened the refrigerator. There were two chicken breasts, half a bag of spinach, a lemon, and a container of rice from Sunday. Good enough.

When Ben came in, he dropped his keys into the blue bowl by the door. “I said don’t order anything because I have a plan.”

“I also have a plan,” Maya said, holding up the chicken.

His plan turned out to be tacos from the food truck near his office. He had even brought home tortillas, slightly bent inside his backpack. After a brief negotiation, they agreed to make chicken tacos and save the rice for lunches.

Ben sliced an onion while Maya cut the chicken into strips. The kitchen was narrow, so they kept bumping hips as they moved between the counter and stove.

“You’re crowding me,” she said.

“You’re standing in front of every useful drawer.”

She stepped aside, and he opened the drawer for the wooden spoon. “See?”

While the chicken cooked with cumin and chili powder, Maya washed the spinach and decided to sauté it instead of putting it in the tacos. Ben objected until she reminded him it was already wilting.

He warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. One caught at the edge.

“That one’s yours,” Maya said.

“Chef’s portion.”

They ate at the small table by the window, adding bottled salsa and squeezing lemon over everything because they had no limes. Outside, someone dragged recycling bins down the sidewalk. Ben talked about a meeting that had run long; Maya described the new receptionist at her office who kept transferring calls to the wrong department.

After dinner, Ben packed the remaining chicken into two containers. Maya washed the skillet while he dried the plates.

“Rice tomorrow?” he asked.

“With the spinach.”

“There’s spinach left?”

She pointed to the pan.

Ben looked at the small green pile and nodded. “Technically, yes.”


Maya got home first and set her laptop bag beside the shoe rack. The apartment smelled faintly of the coffee they had left in the pot that morning. She opened the refrigerator, considered the half carton of eggs, and texted Daniel: **Tacos? We have tortillas and one questionable avocado.**

His reply came as she was rinsing cilantro. **On my way. I’ll get chicken. Is the avocado actually bad or just ugly?**

**Ugly so far.**

Daniel arrived twenty minutes later carrying a grocery bag and the mail. He placed both on the counter, kissed Maya, and began sorting envelopes while she cut open the avocado.

“Brown spot,” she announced.

“Localized or systemic?”

She held it up. “Localized. Surgeon?”

He took a spoon and removed the dark patch. “Patient will live.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Maya sliced an onion and warmed tortillas in a skillet. Daniel cut the chicken into strips, then paused.

“Do you want the smoky seasoning or the lime one?”

“Smoky. We used lime last week.”

“That was fish.”

“Still lime.”

He nodded and shook paprika, cumin, and salt into a bowl. When the chicken hit the pan, the apartment filled with the smell of garlic and toasted spices. Maya opened a window, then set out two plates and the chipped green bowl for salsa.

While the chicken cooked, Daniel told her about a meeting that had run forty minutes late. Maya described the upstairs neighbor’s dog riding the elevator alone that morning. They debated whether the dog had escaped or had simply learned the buttons.

At the table, they assembled tacos, passing ingredients back and forth. Daniel took too much salsa and reached quickly for his water.

“You always do that,” Maya said.

“I remain optimistic.”

After dinner, Maya packed the leftover chicken for lunch. Daniel washed the pans while she wiped the stove and put the tortillas away.

“Tea?” he asked.

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

He filled the kettle. Outside, traffic moved along the wet street, and inside they discussed what to watch while the water heated.


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

“We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and one pepper that’s starting to wrinkle,” she called.

Evan came in from the bedroom, where he had changed out of his work clothes. “Tacos?”

“No tortillas.”

“Rice bowls?”

Maya considered the suggestion, then handed him the pepper. “Rice bowls.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease they had developed over three years of living together. Evan started the rice while Maya cut the chicken into pieces. He reached past her for the soy sauce, and she nudged the cabinet shut with her elbow before he could bump his head.

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

“Scheduled it this morning.”

“Thank you.”

He sliced the pepper and found a soft spot near the stem. “Still good?”

Maya looked over. “Cut that part off.”

While the chicken browned, Evan washed the spinach and spun it dry in the plastic salad spinner his mother had given them. Maya mixed soy sauce, honey, garlic powder, and a little vinegar in a mug. They tasted it with separate spoons.

“More vinegar,” Evan said.

“Absolutely not.”

They compromised with a squeeze of lime.

When everything was ready, they carried their bowls to the small table by the window. Outside, traffic moved slowly along the wet street. Evan had added hot sauce to his dinner; Maya had topped hers with the last of the sesame seeds.

For a few minutes, they ate without talking.

“This is good,” Evan said.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s weekday good.”

Maya smiled. “That’s fair.”

They discussed whether they needed groceries before the weekend and agreed they could manage another day if they used the eggs. Evan volunteered to cook them. Maya reminded him that scrambled eggs did not count as a plan.

After dinner, she packed the leftovers for lunch while he filled the sink with soapy water. He washed; she dried. When the last bowl was put away, they stood together in the quiet kitchen, deciding whether to watch one episode of something or go to bed early.


By six-thirty, rain had darkened the windows of the small duplex where Maya and Ben had lived for three years. Ben came in first, setting his damp backpack beside the shoe rack and calling, “I’m home,” though he could hear Maya on a work call in the spare bedroom.

He changed out of his office clothes and opened the refrigerator. Half a rotisserie chicken sat beside a container of cooked rice, along with broccoli they had been meaning to use. He put a skillet on the stove and started chopping an onion.

Maya appeared a few minutes later, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me we’re not ordering pizza again.”

“Chicken, rice, broccoli,” Ben said. “Possibly all in one pan if I lose motivation.”

“That counts as cooking.” She kissed his cheek, then noticed the full dish rack. “Are these clean?”

“Since this morning.”

She put the dishes away while he stirred the onions. They talked in fragments: her manager had moved a deadline; his bus had been late; the landlord had finally emailed about the loose porch railing. Maya found a lemon in the crisper, slightly soft but usable, and squeezed it over the chicken.

“Did you call your sister?” she asked.

“I texted. She wants us there by noon Saturday.”

Maya nodded and cut the broccoli into smaller pieces. “We should bring something.”

“We always bring something.”

“And we always decide what in the car.”

Ben laughed. “Brownies?”

“Fine. From a mix. I’m not proving anything.”

When the food was ready, they carried their bowls to the narrow table by the window. A stack of unopened mail occupied one corner, and Maya moved it to the counter with a promise to sort it later. Ben filled two glasses with water, then went back for hot sauce.

Outside, tires whispered over the wet street. Inside, the kitchen smelled of lemon and onions. They ate while comparing notes on a show they might watch, both relieved that the day had become small and ordinary again.