On the first Saturday in October, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves something.”

Elena smiled. They had shared the small blue house outside Minneapolis for six years, along with a stubborn radiator and a dog named Pepper. Their anniversary marked the night they had met at a friend’s trivia game, not a wedding date, and they had never agreed on what counted as appropriately significant.

“A party sounds exhausting,” Elena said, sitting across from him. “And a trip sounds expensive.”

Marcus nodded. He had already checked flights to New Orleans and quietly closed the browser tab. “Dinner?”

“We do dinner every year.”

They spent the morning circling possibilities. Marcus suggested renting a cabin near Lake Superior. Elena worried about the October weather. Elena proposed renewing the backyard garden where they had spent their first summer in the house. Marcus pointed out that digging up shrubs did not feel romantic.

After lunch, they took Pepper for a walk through their neighborhood. Passing the community center, Elena stopped at the bulletin board. A local photographer was offering short portrait sessions to raise money for the food shelf.

“We don’t have many good pictures together,” she said.

Marcus studied the flyer. “Because one of us always blinks.”

“One of us refuses to take off his baseball cap.”

By the time they reached home, they had a plan. On the afternoon of their anniversary, they would have their portrait taken in the park where Marcus had first told Elena he loved her. Then they would cook the elaborate mushroom lasagna they had attempted—and burned—during their first year together. They invited the two friends who had hosted the trivia night to join them for dessert.

That evening, Marcus wrote “photo, lasagna, friends” across the legal pad.

“Big enough?” Elena asked.

He reached for her hand. “It feels like us.”

On their anniversary, rain forced the portrait session beneath the park pavilion. Pepper looked away, Marcus blinked, and Elena laughed. The photographer kept that frame. They hung it in the kitchen, above the table where they had made the plan.


On a rainy Tuesday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves a plan.”

They had been together since their last year of college and had shared the small Portland, Oregon, bungalow for six years. They were not married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make the relationship more real. Still, the anniversary mattered. It marked the night Marcus had missed the last bus and Lena had walked three miles with him, talking until dawn.

Lena sat across from him. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“And a fancy dinner is nice, but we do that for birthdays.”

Marcus circled “trip.” They considered the coast, Seattle, and a cabin near Mount Hood. Every option had problems: high prices, limited vacation days, or the need to find someone to watch their elderly dog, Pepper.

“What if we stay here?” Lena asked. “Not just stay home. Re-create our first date.”

Marcus smiled. Their first date had involved dollar tacos, a terrible student jazz concert, and a long walk along the river.

“The taco place closed,” he said.

“We can make them.”

“And I refuse to play jazz.”

“You own a trumpet.”

“I own a trumpet-shaped object.”

They decided on a compromise. On Saturday, they would turn off their phones, cook tacos together, and walk the waterfront route they had taken ten years earlier. On Sunday, they would invite six close friends for cake and champagne in the backyard. Marcus volunteered to string lights along the fence; Lena offered to make a photo album, including the unflattering early pictures they usually hid.

That evening, they wrote the plan on the calendar. Pepper rested his head on Lena’s knee while Marcus added one final note: “No gifts.”

Lena crossed it out.

“Small gifts,” she wrote.

Marcus laughed and leaned over to kiss her. The anniversary would not be grand, but it would belong to both of them.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad. At the top, he had written: **Ten Years**.

“That looks serious,” she said, sitting across from him.

“It is serious. We’ve been together a decade, and neither of us has planned anything.”

Their anniversary fell on a Tuesday. Lena had suggested taking a trip, but flights from Denver were expensive, and Marcus had just used most of his vacation days helping his father after surgery. Marcus had proposed a fancy restaurant downtown, though Lena pointed out that neither of them enjoyed dressing up or paying for valet parking.

They began listing possibilities. A cabin in the mountains. A concert. A backyard party. Re-creating their first date at the bowling alley where Marcus had accidentally sent his ball into the gutter three times.

“Four,” Lena corrected.

“You promised never to mention the fourth.”

By noon, the list had grown longer, but nothing felt right. Lena carried their mugs to the sink and looked through the window at the maple tree they had planted when they bought the house together. Its leaves were turning orange.

“What if we stay home?” she asked. “Not like any normal Tuesday. Deliberately stay home.”

Marcus considered it. “Cook the meal we made when we moved in?”

“The terrible lasagna?”

“We could make a better one.”

They decided to take the day off. In the morning, they would walk the trail where they had first talked seriously about living together. Afterward, they would visit the county animal shelter and make a donation in memory of their old dog, Pepper. In the evening, they would cook lasagna, open the bottle of wine Lena’s sister had given them years ago, and watch the ridiculous science-fiction movie from their first date.

Marcus added each item to the legal pad.

“No gifts?” he asked.

Lena smiled. “One gift. We each write down what we want the next ten years to look like.”

He drew a box around that.

It wasn’t a dramatic plan, but as they taped the list to the refrigerator, it felt like theirs: practical, affectionate, and built together.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves a plan.”

They had shared the small house outside Minneapolis for six years, though they still told the story of their first date as if it had happened last month: a rainy walk around Lake Harriet, followed by tacos because the restaurant Daniel had chosen was unexpectedly closed.

Maya sat across from him. “A party would be fun, but my sister’s due date is that week. And your parents can’t travel easily anymore.”

Daniel nodded. They had already discussed marriage many times and decided it wasn’t necessary for them, but the anniversary mattered. Ten years contained job changes, his father’s surgery, her graduate degree, and the winter their furnace failed during a cold snap. It felt worth honoring.

“What about Vermont?” he asked. “You always wanted to see the leaves.”

“I do,” Maya said, “but flights, hotel, rental car—it’ll be expensive. We’re supposed to replace the back steps.”

Daniel drew a line through “trip.” “Very romantic.”

“Safe stairs are romantic.”

They laughed, then grew quiet. Through the window, their maple tree had begun turning orange.

Maya picked up the pen. “What if we redo the first date? Walk around the lake, get tacos, then come home.”

“And invite people here afterward?” Daniel added. “Not a huge party. Just family and the friends who’ve known us longest.”

They spent the next hour building a guest list and debating whether the backyard would be too cold. Daniel offered to string lights along the fence. Maya suggested asking guests to bring a photo or memory instead of a gift.

On the anniversary, rain arrived exactly as it had ten years earlier. They walked the lake under one umbrella, shoulders pressed together, then ate tacos at the same crowded counter.

That evening, back home, their friends filled the living room. Daniel raised a glass and thanked everyone for helping them build a life. Maya slipped her hand into his.

Later, after the last guest left, they stood beneath the wet backyard lights.

“Good plan,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against him. “Even with the stairs.”

“Especially with the stairs.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“Budget meeting?” she asked, eyeing the columns he had drawn.

“Anniversary meeting,” he said. “Ten years deserves a plan.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Minneapolis and moved in together three years later. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years mattered.

Maya wanted to travel. She opened her laptop and showed Ben photos of a cabin near Lake Superior, where autumn leaves crowded the shoreline. Ben liked the idea but worried about leaving their elderly dog, Pepper, with a sitter. He suggested a fancy restaurant downtown instead.

“We’ve done restaurants,” Maya said. “And we spend half the meal wondering if Pepper is barking.”

Ben tapped his pen against the pad. “What if we bring her?”

They searched together and found a dog-friendly cottage two hours north. It had a fireplace, a small kitchen, and a path to the lake. The price was higher than they had planned, so Maya proposed skipping anniversary gifts. Ben agreed, though he secretly crossed “new earrings” off his list.

The following Friday, they packed groceries, raincoats, and Pepper’s bed into the car. At the cottage, the weather turned cold and wet. Their planned hike lasted twenty minutes before Pepper refused to move and Ben carried her back under his jacket.

That evening, Maya cooked pasta while Ben built a stubborn fire. They ate at a scratched wooden table, listening to rain strike the windows. After dinner, Ben produced a small envelope.

“I thought we said no gifts,” Maya said.

“It’s not a gift.”

Inside was a printed photograph from their first summer together, both of them sunburned and laughing. On the back, he had written: Ten years, and I’d still choose this.

Maya smiled, then handed him her phone. She had made a playlist of songs from every year they had shared.

They danced carefully in the narrow kitchen while Pepper slept beside the fire. It wasn’t grand, but it felt exactly like their life: negotiated, imperfect, and chosen together.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a notebook open between them.

“Eight years,” he said, tapping the date he had circled. “We should do something.”

They had been together since graduate school and had shared the small Minneapolis bungalow for five years. Their anniversaries were usually simple—dinner out, a concert, once a weekend in Chicago—but this one felt important. Eight years was not a traditional milestone, yet it had carried them through new jobs, family illnesses, a leaking roof, and the long winter when Ben had been laid off.

Maya sat across from him. “I don’t want a fancy restaurant where we can’t hear each other.”

“Agreed,” Ben said. “What about a trip?”

She hesitated. They had spent most of their savings replacing the furnace. Ben noticed and crossed “trip” off the list without argument.

They considered hosting a party, but Maya disliked being the center of attention. Ben suggested renewing their commitment privately, then laughed at how formal it sounded.

“What if we go back to Lake Harriet?” Maya asked. It was where they had first admitted they were dating, after weeks of pretending their walks were casual.

Ben smiled. “Picnic, even if it’s cold?”

“Especially if it’s cold.”

Together they made a plan: they would walk around the lake, bring sandwiches from the deli they loved, and each write a letter about the life they wanted to build over the next eight years. Afterward, they would come home and plant a serviceberry tree in the backyard, something native that would flower in spring and feed birds in summer.

On their anniversary, the wind came hard off the water. Ben carried the thermos; Maya tucked the letters inside her coat. They ate on a damp bench, laughing when napkins blew across the path, then read their letters aloud.

That afternoon, they dug the hole together. The work was muddy and slower than expected, but when the tree finally stood straight, Maya pressed her shoulder against Ben’s.

“Not fancy,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “But it’s ours.”


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs competing for his attention: a lakeside hotel, a concert downtown, and a restaurant that required reservations months in advance.

“Ten years deserves something memorable,” he said.

Maya poured coffee and leaned over his shoulder. They had shared the little blue house in Ohio for six years, though they had never married. Their anniversary marked the evening they first met at a friend’s crowded backyard party, where Daniel had offered her the last folding chair and then sat on the grass.

“The hotel looks nice,” she said, “but we’d have to board Pepper.”

At the sound of his name, their elderly beagle lifted his head from the rug.

Daniel closed that tab. “Fair point.”

The concert was expensive, and neither of them recognized more than two songs by the band. The restaurant menu impressed Daniel, but Maya reminded him that she disliked formal dining rooms where everyone whispered.

They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the furnace click on.

“What did we do on our first anniversary?” Maya asked.

“Takeout from that Thai place,” Daniel said. “Then we got lost trying to find the state park.”

“We did not get lost. You ignored the map.”

“You were holding it upside down.”

By noon, they had a plan. They would drive to the same park, walk the trail they had eventually found nine years earlier, and bring Pepper in his wagon when he got tired. Afterward, they would order Thai food and invite the two friends who had hosted the party where they met.

On the anniversary, rain forced them to eat beneath a picnic shelter. Daniel produced a small photo album filled with ticket stubs, house-renovation pictures, and snapshots of ordinary Sundays. Maya gave him a handwritten list titled “Ten Things I’m Glad We Built.”

They read it together while Pepper snored between them. The day was damp, inexpensive, and nothing like a grand romantic getaway. Still, driving home with muddy shoes and leftover noodles, they agreed it felt exactly right.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling on a sweater.

“Our ten-year anniversary plan,” he said. “Left side: responsible options. Right side: irresponsible options.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Portland, Oregon, and moved into their small bungalow five years later. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years together seemed too important to mark with their usual takeout and a movie.

Maya scanned the list. The responsible side included dinner downtown, a weekend at the coast, and replacing the sagging sofa. The irresponsible side had one entry: fly to New Orleans.

“We need a sofa,” Ben said.

“We’ll still need one after our anniversary.”

They checked flights, frowned at the prices, and began negotiating. Ben wanted somewhere they could hike. Maya wanted good food and no airport security. After an hour, she opened a map and pointed to a town in the Columbia River Gorge where they had spent their first weekend away together.

“The motel with the broken ice machine?” Ben asked.

“It has been ten years. Maybe they fixed it.”

They booked a room at a newer inn, then planned the rest together. Ben reserved a table at a farm-to-table restaurant. Maya found a trail that ended at a waterfall. They agreed to bring a bottle of the same inexpensive red wine they had shared on that first trip, though Ben warned it might taste worse than they remembered.

On the morning of their anniversary, rain tapped against the windows. Maya looked disappointed, but Ben held up two rain jackets.

“We live in Oregon,” he said. “This is formal wear.”

They hiked anyway, laughing when the trail turned muddy. That evening, back at the inn, they exchanged handwritten letters rather than gifts. Maya cried first; Ben followed.

The wine was, in fact, terrible. They drank it on the balcony under a shared blanket, pleased that the weekend felt neither responsible nor irresponsible, but exactly like them.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, where the gutters always needed cleaning and the back door stuck in humid weather. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years seemed worth marking.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds fun, but then we’d spend the whole night making sure everyone else had a drink.”

“And a trip means boarding the dog.”

“And using most of our emergency fund.”

Ben crossed out “party” and put a question mark beside “trip.” They considered a restaurant downtown, then remembered how their fifth anniversary dinner had been interrupted by a fire alarm.

“What did we do on our first date?” Maya asked.

“Walked around the lake because we were both too nervous to eat.”

“You were nervous?”

“I changed shirts four times.”

She laughed. “I thought you only owned three shirts.”

By noon, they had a plan. On the morning of their anniversary, they would return to the lake, bringing coffee and the same kind of cinnamon rolls they had eventually shared that first day. Afterward, they would drive home and plant a maple tree in the backyard, near the fence where an old ash had been removed.

The idea felt right to both of them: modest, lasting, and connected to the life they had built.

On the anniversary, the wind off the lake was colder than expected. Ben carried the coffee while Maya tucked the pastry bag inside her coat. They walked slowly, recalling old apartments, bad jobs, and the night they adopted their dog.

Later, kneeling together in damp soil, they steadied the young maple between them.

“Ten years,” Ben said.

Maya pressed dirt around the roots. “Let’s give it water.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration, but as they stood side by side holding the hose, it felt like one.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“Our tenth anniversary is in three weeks,” he said. “I thought we should make an actual plan before every restaurant in Seattle is booked.”

Maya sat across from him, still wearing her running clothes. They had been together for ten years and had shared the townhouse for four, but they approached celebrations differently. Daniel liked reservations and printed confirmations. Maya preferred ideas that could survive a change in weather.

They began with the obvious possibilities: a weekend on the coast, a concert, dinner downtown. Daniel had found a cabin near Cannon Beach, but the total cost made Maya raise her eyebrows. She suggested hosting friends at home, then admitted that cooking for twelve people did not sound romantic.

“What are we marking?” she asked. “The day we met, or everything since?”

Daniel looked around the kitchen they had painted together the previous spring. “Everything since, I guess.”

That shifted the conversation. They decided against one expensive event and planned a day built from pieces of their life together. In the morning, they would return to the café where they had first met through mutual friends. Then they would walk around Green Lake, as they had during their early dates when neither had much money. In the afternoon, they would visit the furniture store and finally order the reading chair they had discussed for months.

“For the house?” Maya asked.

“For us,” Daniel said.

They still wanted something festive, so Maya booked a small neighborhood restaurant they both loved. Daniel volunteered to choose a bottle of wine and make a playlist for afterward. At home, they would exchange letters—not gifts—about what they hoped the next ten years might hold.

Daniel wrote the plan on the legal pad. Maya added one final line: *No errands.*

He laughed and underlined it twice.

Three weeks later, rain changed the walk into a slow drive around the lake, but neither minded. The day felt ordinary in the best way: shared, negotiated, and entirely theirs.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with a notebook, two mugs of coffee, and an expression usually reserved for tax forms.

“Ten years,” he said. “We should probably do something.”

Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, between Lena’s late shift at the hospital and Marcus’s presentation to a client. For years, they had marked the date with dinner out. But ten years felt different—not quite a wedding anniversary, though their shared house in Ohio, joint grocery list, and elderly beagle suggested a life thoroughly intertwined.

Lena sat across from him. “A trip?”

Marcus turned the notebook around. He had listed Chicago, a cabin in Hocking Hills, and “fancy restaurant, no phones.”

She smiled. “You made categories.”

“I panicked.”

They talked through the options. Chicago would be expensive, and neither wanted to arrange care for the dog. The cabin sounded peaceful, but Lena admitted she didn’t want to spend their anniversary hauling firewood and pretending not to worry about hospital emails.

“What did we do on our first date?” Marcus asked.

“Walked around for three hours because neither of us wanted to pay for parking twice.”

“And ate terrible tacos.”

“They were good tacos. You were nervous.”

By noon, they had a plan. On Wednesday, Marcus would leave work early and pick up tacos from the same small restaurant, still operating across town. Lena would meet him at the riverside park where they had walked that first night. On Saturday, they would host a backyard dinner for the friends and relatives who had supported them over the decade.

“Is that too ordinary?” Lena asked.

Marcus looked around the kitchen they had painted together, toward the muddy paw prints by the back door.

“Ordinary is most of what we built,” he said. “I think that’s worth celebrating.”

Lena reached across the table and took his hand. Then she added “string lights” to the notebook, while Marcus wrote “good cake” underneath it and circled the words twice.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs labeled “cabins,” “tasting menu,” and “kayak rentals.”

“Planning a very confused vacation?” she asked.

He turned the screen toward her. “Ten years next Friday.”

“I know.” Maya set down the groceries. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

They had met at a friend’s birthday party in Chicago and, after several moves, now shared a small house outside Minneapolis. They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept presenting more immediate expenses: graduate school, a leaking roof, Ben’s father’s illness. Still, ten years felt substantial.

Ben suggested a weekend at a lakeside resort. Maya liked the idea until they saw the price. She proposed dinner at the restaurant where they had celebrated their first anniversary, but it had closed during the pandemic.

For a while, they unpacked groceries in silence.

“What did we actually do on our first date?” Ben asked.

“We walked along the lake because neither of us wanted to pay for another drink.”

“And you pretended you weren’t cold.”

“I was trying to seem easygoing.”

He laughed. “That didn’t last.”

Maya tossed a dish towel at him, then paused. “What if we take Friday off? Walk around Lake Harriet, get lunch somewhere, and come home before rush hour.”

“We could finally open that bottle your sister gave us.”

“And cook together,” she said. “Something difficult enough to feel special.”

They settled on homemade ravioli, despite having no pasta machine and limited patience. Ben booked them massages for the morning, while Maya ordered a small photo book covering their decade together: apartments, road trips, pets, funerals, ordinary Sundays.

On Friday evening, their ravioli came out uneven and several burst in the pot. They ate the survivors by candlelight at their own dining table. Afterward, Ben brought out the photo book, which Maya had hidden badly in the hall closet.

They turned the pages slowly, correcting each other’s memories. Nothing about the day was grand, but as rain tapped the windows of the home they had built together, ten years felt properly noticed.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Eli at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together for seven years in a narrow row house outside Baltimore, collecting shared furniture, utility bills, and traditions without ever getting married. Usually they marked anniversaries with takeout and a movie, but ten years felt different.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds fun until we spend the whole night refilling ice.”

“And a trip sounds relaxing until we look at airfare,” Eli said.

They checked prices anyway. A long weekend in Montreal was beyond their budget, and the cabin Maya liked required a five-hour drive. Eli suggested the seafood restaurant where they had gone on their first date, but it had closed two years earlier.

For a moment, the anniversary began to feel like another household problem to solve.

Then Maya opened the drawer where they kept old menus and appliance manuals. She pulled out a faded takeout receipt from their first year together. “What if we stay here,” she said, “but make it intentional?”

Together they planned a day built from pieces of their history. In the morning, they would walk the trail where Eli had first told her he loved her. They would buy lunch from the taco truck that had catered their housewarming. That evening, they would cook the complicated mushroom risotto they had once ruined during a snowstorm.

“And invite people?” Eli asked.

“Just for dessert,” Maya said. “The people who’ve watched us become us.”

On the anniversary, the risotto took too long and the kitchen filled with steam. Eli stirred while Maya grated cheese, both laughing when the smoke alarm chirped. Later, eight friends crowded around their dining table for cake and champagne.

After everyone left, Maya and Eli sat on the porch under a blanket. The celebration had cost less than a flight and felt more honest than a grand gesture.

“To ten years,” Eli said.

Maya touched her glass to his. “And to choosing the next one.”


On the Thursday before their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen counter comparing hotel prices on his laptop. Their rented duplex in Columbus was quiet except for the dishwasher and the traffic on Broad Street.

“Savannah?” he asked, turning the screen toward her. “Three nights. We could leave Friday.”

Lena studied the total and winced. “That’s almost what we paid to fix the furnace.”

They had never married, though the subject had come up in vague, unfinished conversations. Still, ten years felt substantial: two apartments, one cross-country move, three job changes, and the elderly beagle asleep beneath the table.

Marcus closed the laptop. “Okay. No grand trip.”

“I didn’t say no grand anything,” Lena said. She pulled a grocery receipt from her bag and wrote “TEN YEARS” across the back. “What do we actually want?”

They made separate lists. Marcus wanted to revisit the lakeside park where they had first decided they were officially together. Lena wanted good food, photographs, and a day without errands. Both wrote, “No party.”

By bedtime, they had a plan.

Saturday morning, they left their phones at home except for Lena’s, which stayed zipped in her backpack for emergencies. They drove to the park with coffee and the beagle, Otis, who moved slowly but enthusiastically along the familiar trail. At the bench overlooking the water, Marcus handed Lena a small envelope. Inside was a printed photograph from each year they had been together.

“I had to steal some from your cloud account,” he admitted.

Lena laughed, then gave him her own gift: a handwritten list of ten ordinary days she remembered clearly—assembling their first bookshelf, getting caught in a Denver hailstorm, eating cereal during a blackout.

That evening, they cooked pasta at home, opened an expensive bottle of wine, and played the songs from their first road trip. Nothing about the day looked dramatic from outside. There was no proposal, no crowded restaurant, no plane ticket.

But when Marcus raised his glass and said, “To the life we keep choosing,” Lena touched hers to it.

“To choosing it well,” she said.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs labeled “cabins,” “restaurants,” and “cheap flights.”

“Planning an escape?” she asked, setting down two mugs of coffee.

“Our tenth anniversary is next month,” he said. “I thought we should do something bigger than takeout.”

They had been together since graduate school and had shared their small Maryland townhouse for six years. Marriage had never felt urgent to either of them, though their anniversary mattered. It marked the night Daniel had missed the last train after their first real date, and Maya had walked with him for an hour through cold rain.

Maya pulled out a chair. “A cabin sounds nice, but November is when my office gets busy. And flights are ridiculous.”

Daniel turned the laptop toward her. “What would feel special?”

She considered it. “Honestly? I don’t want to spend the weekend driving somewhere, taking pictures, and worrying about the dog.”

From under the table, their beagle, Roscoe, thumped his tail.

Daniel laughed. “He agrees.”

They began making a list. Daniel suggested dinner at the Italian restaurant where they had celebrated their fifth anniversary. Maya proposed revisiting the neighborhood where they had first lived, then cooking at home. By the time their coffee was gone, they had combined the ideas.

On the anniversary, they took the train into Washington, D.C., and walked past their old basement apartment. The corner grocery had become a pharmacy, but the Ethiopian café where they once split meals was still there. They stopped for lunch and told the owner they had first eaten there ten years earlier.

That evening, back home, Daniel made fresh pasta while Maya opened a bottle of wine they had been saving. They exchanged letters instead of gifts, each describing one ordinary day from their life together that they never wanted to forget.

After dinner, they walked Roscoe in a light drizzle. Maya slipped her hand into Daniel’s coat pocket, as she had on their first date.

“This was better than a cabin,” he said.

“Much better,” she replied, and they kept walking.


On a rainy Tuesday in October, Maya found the reservation card while searching the kitchen drawer for batteries. It was from the small Italian restaurant where she and Ben had gone on their first date ten years earlier.

She held it up when he came in carrying groceries. “Do you realize Friday is exactly ten years?”

Ben set the bags on the counter. “I knew it was close.”

“Close?”

“I knew the month,” he admitted.

They had lived together in their Portland bungalow for six years, long enough for anniversaries to become complicated. Their first date was in October, their first lease in March, and the day they adopted their dog, Milo, in June. They weren’t married, and neither seemed bothered by that, but ten years felt too important for takeout and television.

Maya suggested returning to the restaurant. Ben checked its website and frowned. It had closed during the pandemic.

“We could do something big,” he said. “A weekend at the coast?”

Maya looked toward the window, where rain streaked the glass. “I have that Monday deadline. I’d spend the whole trip checking email.”

They unpacked groceries while discussing alternatives. A party sounded exhausting. Expensive gifts felt unnecessary. Ben proposed recreating their first date at home: mushroom ravioli, cheap red wine, and the old comedy they had watched afterward.

“The movie was terrible,” Maya said.

“You laughed.”

“At you complaining about it.”

By Thursday, their plan had grown. Ben found a pasta recipe and borrowed a pasta roller from a coworker. Maya ordered a bottle from the same Oregon winery they had visited during their second year together. They printed photographs from the past decade and taped them along the dining-room wall—camping trips, family holidays, Milo as a puppy, and the day they received the keys to the bungalow.

On Friday evening, the ravioli came out uneven, and one batch split in the pot. They ate the survivors by candlelight while Milo waited hopefully beneath the table.

Ben raised his glass. “To ten years, one house, and several questionable decisions.”

Maya touched her glass to his. “Most of them worked out.”

After dinner, they watched the terrible movie on the couch. Halfway through, Maya began laughing—not at the film, but at Ben complaining exactly as he had ten years before.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs labeled “weekend cabins.”

“Are we fleeing the city?” she asked, setting down the groceries.

“Our tenth anniversary is in two weeks,” he said. “I thought we could go somewhere.”

Maya glanced at the prices on the screen and winced. Their washing machine had started making a grinding noise, and the maple beside the driveway needed trimming before winter. They owned the little Ohio house together, which meant every romantic plan competed with a repair.

“I’d love a cabin,” she said, “but I don’t want to spend the whole weekend worrying about the credit card.”

Daniel closed the laptop. “Fair. So what would feel special?”

They unpacked groceries while they talked. Maya suggested dinner at the Italian restaurant where they had gone on their first date. Daniel reminded her that it had closed years ago. He proposed hosting a party, but she pictured cleaning the house for twenty people and shook her head.

At last, Daniel held up a jar of pasta sauce. “What if we recreate the first date here?”

“The first date where you spilled wine on your shirt?”

“I can guarantee historical accuracy.”

Over the next two weeks, they planned together. Maya found the restaurant’s old menu online, and Daniel practiced making mushroom ravioli. They ordered a bottle of the same inexpensive red wine they had shared that night. Each secretly wrote a letter about the past decade.

On their anniversary, they dressed as if they were going out. Daniel lit candles in the dining room, and Maya queued the songs they had listened to when they first moved in together. The ravioli was uneven, and one batch split open in the pot, but they laughed and served it anyway.

After dinner, they exchanged letters on the back porch. Maya wrote about how Daniel had cared for her after surgery. Daniel wrote about the morning they received the house keys and sat on the empty living-room floor eating doughnuts.

Later, they planted a young lilac bush near the porch.

“It’ll be huge by our twentieth,” Maya said.

Daniel pressed soil around its roots. “Then we’d better stay long enough to complain about pruning it.”

She handed him the watering can. “That’s the plan.”


On a rainy Thursday evening in Portland, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs competing for his attention: a coastal hotel, a concert downtown, and a reservation page for the Italian restaurant where they had gone on their first date.

“Ten years deserves something memorable,” he said.

Maya set down the grocery bag. “Memorable doesn’t have to mean expensive.”

They had lived together for seven years, long enough to share a mortgage, two cats, and strong opinions about dishwasher loading. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, their anniversary mattered. It marked the night they had met at a friend’s crowded game night and spent two hours talking in the hallway.

Daniel favored a weekend at the coast. Maya liked the idea, but she had recently started a new job and didn’t want to ask for time off. The concert sounded fun, though neither knew the band well. The restaurant had sentimental value, but its anniversary menu cost more than they had budgeted.

They made tea and moved to the couch, each naming what they actually wanted from the day. Daniel wanted to get out of their routine. Maya wanted time to look back at the life they had built.

By the time the rain eased, they had a plan. On Saturday morning, they would drive to the state park where they had taken their first trip together. They would hike the short trail to the overlook, then eat a picnic of foods from different years of their relationship: the spicy chips Daniel had brought to game night, sandwiches from their old neighborhood deli, and the lemon cake Maya had learned to bake during lockdown.

That evening, they would come home, feed the cats, and open the box of ticket stubs, notes, and photographs they kept in the hall closet. They also agreed to write each other letters to read aloud.

Daniel closed the laptop. “Not flashy,” he said.

Maya leaned against him. “No. But it sounds like us.”

He smiled. “Then it’s settled.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves a plan.”

They had moved into the small Portland bungalow six years earlier, after four years of dating and countless conversations about whether marriage mattered to either of them. They still weren’t married, but the anniversary of their first date had become the date they guarded most carefully.

Maya sat across from him. “A party would be fun, but I don’t want to spend the whole night refilling ice.”

“And a trip means boarding the dog.”

From the hallway, their elderly beagle sneezed as if objecting.

They considered a fancy restaurant downtown, a weekend on the coast, and a backyard gathering with everyone who had helped them through job changes, a broken furnace, and Ben’s father’s illness. Each idea felt either too private or not private enough.

Maya carried the mugs to the porch. Rain had darkened the cedar steps, and the maple tree they had planted after moving in was beginning to turn red.

“What if we do both?” she asked. “Not the expensive versions.”

Their plan came together slowly. On Saturday afternoon, they would invite a dozen friends and relatives for soup, bread, and cake in the backyard, with borrowed heaters if the weather stayed cold. They would ask everyone to bring a photograph or short memory from the past decade. Afterward, once the dishes were stacked, Maya and Ben would drive to the coast, stay one night at a modest motel, and walk the beach the next morning.

Ben added the costs on his legal pad. Maya opened a shared document for the guest list.

On their anniversary, the rain stopped just before everyone arrived. Ben hung string lights while Maya warmed two pots of chili. Later, they read the collected memories aloud, laughing at old haircuts and forgotten apartments.

The next morning, standing barefoot on a cold Oregon beach, they exchanged handwritten letters.

“No rings?” Ben teased.

Maya tucked her letter into her coat. “Not this year.”

He took her hand, and they walked toward the water.


On a rainy Tuesday evening in Portland, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s this?” she asked, setting down her grocery bag.

“Our ten-year anniversary,” he said. “Ideas, costs, and likelihood of us regretting them.”

Maya laughed and pulled out a chair. They had shared the small bungalow for six years, accumulating mismatched furniture, a stubborn cat, and a garden that produced mostly zucchini. They had never married, partly from indifference to ceremony and partly because life kept presenting more urgent expenses.

Daniel pointed to the list. A weekend at the coast was affordable but predictable. Dinner at the French restaurant where they had celebrated their first anniversary was sentimental but required booking months ahead. A backyard party would include friends, though Maya worried it might feel like hosting rather than celebrating.

“What do you actually want?” she asked.

Daniel considered the question. “I want to notice it. Ten years feels important.”

Maya nodded. She wanted that too, but she didn’t want the day to become a test of whether their relationship looked sufficiently official.

They opened their calendars and checked the weather forecast. By the time the tea was cold, they had a plan: they would take Friday off, drive to the town where they had met, and spend the day retracing the beginning. They would eat lunch at the diner where Daniel had spilled coffee on Maya’s coat, walk through the public garden where she had first taken his hand, and stay overnight at a modest hotel nearby.

“And Saturday?” Daniel asked.

“Saturday we come home,” Maya said, “and make dinner together.”

They invited no one. Instead, they each agreed to bring a letter describing one thing they remembered from every year they had been together.

On the anniversary morning, Daniel loaded the car while Maya locked the front door. Before she joined him, she looked back through the window at their crowded hallway and the cat watching from the sofa.

“Ready?” Daniel called.

Maya smiled. “For the next ten? Probably. For today? Definitely.”


On a rainy Thursday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three restaurant menus spread around him.

“Ten years deserves something better than takeout,” he said.

Maya set down her grocery bag. “Takeout has carried this relationship through several crises.”

Their anniversary was two weeks away. They had met at a friend’s Halloween party, moved in together four years later, and bought their small house outside Portland after saving for what felt like forever. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither cared much about a ceremony. Still, ten years felt significant.

Ben wanted to reserve a cabin near Mount Hood. Maya liked the idea, but she had used most of her vacation days helping her sister after surgery. She suggested a fancy dinner downtown instead.

“We did that for five years,” Ben reminded her.

“And you spilled red wine on my dress.”

“You still bring that up like it was intentional.”

They laughed, then spent the evening comparing costs. A cabin would mean boarding their elderly dog, paying for gas, and risking bad weather. Dinner was easier, but Maya admitted it felt too ordinary.

The next morning, Ben texted her a third idea: What if we stay home, but make it not normal?

Together they planned a weekend around their own history. On Saturday, they would visit the park where they first talked alone, then stop at the diner where Ben had finally asked Maya out. That evening, they would cook the elaborate mushroom risotto they had attempted—and ruined—during their first year together.

They also agreed to buy one thing for the house. After some debate, they chose a young Japanese maple for the backyard.

On their anniversary, they planted it in damp soil near the fence. Ben held the trunk straight while Maya packed earth around the roots.

“It looks small,” she said.

“So did we,” Ben replied.

Later, eating slightly overcooked risotto by candlelight, they decided the day had been exactly right: not grand, not traditional, but built together.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs full of cabin rentals.

“Ten years,” he said. “We should do something big.”

Maya set down the groceries. Their anniversary was two weeks away, marking a decade since their first date at a crowded taco shop in Austin. They had never married, though they had built a life together: a small house in Colorado, a shared mortgage, two aging bicycles, and a dog named Pepper.

“A cabin sounds nice,” Maya said, studying the prices. “But the water heater has been making that noise again.”

Ben closed one tab. “Romantic.”

“I’m not saying we spend our anniversary replacing it.”

They unpacked groceries while they talked. Ben wanted a trip because the past year had felt consumed by work and home repairs. Maya agreed they needed time away, but she disliked the idea of turning one weekend into an expensive test of how much the relationship mattered.

“What if we go back to Austin?” Ben suggested.

“Flights are worse than the cabins.”

Pepper wandered in, hoping the discussion involved food.

That evening, Maya pulled a shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and the receipt from their first date, faded almost blank. Ben laughed when he saw the total.

“We tipped four dollars,” he said. “We were monsters.”

“We were broke.”

They decided on something smaller. On Friday, they would take the day off, leave their phones at home, and drive into the mountains with Pepper. On Saturday night, they would invite the friends who had watched their relationship grow—through job changes, illnesses, arguments, and the long process of buying the house.

For the anniversary itself, they recreated their first date at a neighborhood taco place. Ben brought the shoebox, and Maya brought a new envelope labeled “Year Eleven.”

Over dinner, they each wrote one hope for the next decade. They did not read them aloud. Instead, they sealed the notes together, split the check for tradition’s sake, and walked home holding hands.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad. At the top, he had written: **Ten Years**.

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Columbus, Ohio, and moved into their small bungalow six years later. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony was necessary. Still, ten years together seemed too important to pass with their usual dinner at the neighborhood Thai restaurant.

“I looked at flights to Santa Fe,” Marcus said. “But they’re expensive that weekend.”

Lena sat across from him and tucked one foot beneath her. “I could use the vacation days. But I’m not sure I want our anniversary to become an airport problem.”

Marcus nodded. He had already drawn two columns: **Trip** and **Stay Home**. Under “Trip,” he had listed desert, good food, no chores. Under “Stay Home,” Lena added dog can come, cheaper, and sleep in our own bed.

They talked through breakfast. Marcus wanted the day to feel different from an ordinary Saturday. Lena wanted time to remember what they had built: the house, their elderly beagle, the careers they had changed, and the difficult year when Marcus’s father was sick.

Eventually Lena suggested they revisit the places from their first year together. They could get lunch from the food truck where they had their second date, walk along the Scioto River, and book a room downtown so they would not end the night folding laundry.

Marcus smiled. “And dinner somewhere we’ve never been. One new thing.”

They agreed to exchange letters instead of gifts. Marcus reserved a hotel with a rooftop bar, while Lena called the restaurant and requested a quiet table. Then they opened their shared calendar and blocked off the entire weekend, including Sunday morning.

Before getting up, Marcus drew a line through both columns and wrote their final plan underneath: **Old places, new dinner, no errands**.

Lena raised her coffee mug. “To ten years.”

Marcus tapped his mug against hers. “And to not spending them in an airport.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into three columns: “Trip,” “Party,” and “Something Else.”

“Our tenth anniversary deserves better than a spreadsheet,” she said, sitting across from him.

“It’s a legal pad,” Ben replied. “Much more romantic.”

They had lived together in their small Ohio bungalow for six years, long enough to replace the water heater, repaint the bedroom twice, and learn that neither of them remembered to buy stamps. They weren’t married, by mutual choice, but the date of their first real dinner together mattered to them.

Maya wanted to invite friends for a backyard party. Ben pictured a quiet weekend in Chicago, where they had taken their first trip as a couple. Both ideas had problems. October weather was unpredictable, and their elderly dog, Pickle, needed medication twice a day.

“What if we stay here?” Ben asked. “Not just stay home. Make home the point.”

Maya looked around at the scuffed floor and the stack of mail by the fruit bowl. “You’re going to have to sell that better.”

Together, they made a plan. On Saturday afternoon, they would host an open house with chili, cider, and a playlist built from songs they had argued about over the years. They would ask each guest to bring a written memory instead of a gift. After everyone left, Maya and Ben would spend Sunday alone, walking Pickle at the lake and cooking the complicated mushroom risotto they had attempted on their third date.

The party was crowded and slightly chaotic. Rain forced everyone indoors, one batch of chili burned, and Pickle stole half a cornbread muffin from Maya’s brother. Still, the memory cards filled a glass bowl.

On Sunday evening, Ben stirred the risotto while Maya read the cards aloud. Some were funny; a few made them quiet.

When dinner was ready, they carried their bowls to the porch. The rain had stopped.

“Ten years,” Maya said.

Ben touched his spoon to hers like a toast. “Same time next decade?”

She smiled. “We’ll need a bigger legal pad.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Evan at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a mug of coffee going cold beside him.

“I’ve been looking at cabins,” he said. “For our tenth anniversary.”

Maya set down the grocery bags. “Cabins where?”

“Vermont. Maybe Maine.”

She smiled, but then glanced toward the living room, where a plastic sheet covered the ceiling stain from the previous week’s leak. Their savings account had already taken a hit from the plumber, and the roofer’s estimate sat unopened on the counter.

“Can we afford Vermont?” she asked.

Evan closed the laptop halfway. “Not comfortably.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue ten years earlier and moved into their Ohio bungalow after four years together. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither cared much about weddings. Still, the anniversary mattered. Ten years felt substantial—something they wanted to recognize rather than let pass between work deadlines and home repairs.

Maya unpacked vegetables while Evan suggested alternatives: a fancy restaurant in Cleveland, concert tickets, a weekend at a nearby hotel. She rejected the hotel; he admitted the concert would be more his choice than hers.

“What if we stay here?” Maya said. “But actually make a day of it.”

Together, they built a plan. They would take Friday off, silence their phones, and revisit the places from their first year: the park where they had picnicked, the small art museum they used to visit on free afternoons, and the diner where Evan had nervously asked whether Maya wanted to be exclusive.

That evening, they made reservations at a neighborhood restaurant they had always considered too expensive for an ordinary night. Evan offered to assemble a photo book. Maya decided to write down ten memories—one from each year—and asked him to do the same.

On their anniversary, rain canceled the picnic, so they ate sandwiches in the car, laughing as the windshield fogged. At dinner, they traded their lists. Some memories matched; most did not.

Driving home, Maya reached across the console for Evan’s hand. Their celebration had not been grand, but it felt accurate: practical, affectionate, and built together.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Our ten-year anniversary,” he said. “Ideas, costs, and whether the dog can come.”

Lena laughed and sat across from him. They had been together since graduate school, unmarried by mutual preference, and had shared the small Oregon bungalow for six years. Their anniversary usually meant dinner out, but ten years felt too important for their standard reservation at the neighborhood Italian place.

Marcus tapped the first column. “Weekend at the coast. Expensive, but possible.”

“Rainy,” Lena said.

“It’s Oregon.”

“Fair.”

Her own idea was a backyard party with the friends who had watched their relationship grow. Marcus liked the thought, but hesitated. His mother had recently had surgery in Arizona, and travel would be difficult for her. Lena’s brother, meanwhile, had just started a new job in Chicago and couldn’t take time off.

They spent the morning comparing options. A large party felt stressful. A luxury hotel felt unlike them. Renewing vows made them both chuckle, since they had never taken any.

Finally, Lena pulled an old shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, postcards, and the receipt from their first dinner together. Marcus found a faded photograph of them hiking near Mount Hood, both sunburned and grinning.

“What if we go back there?” he asked. “Rent a cabin, take the same trail, and bring the box.”

“And make a new one,” Lena said. “For the next ten years.”

They booked a modest cabin for two nights, then invited family and friends to join them by video that Saturday evening. On the anniversary itself, they hiked the old trail with their dog, ate sandwiches beside the lake, and took another photograph in the same spot.

That night, back at the cabin, they opened a bottle of wine and wrote letters to their future selves. Marcus sealed both envelopes and placed them in a new wooden box.

“Ten more?” he asked.

Lena leaned against him. “At least.”


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Please tell me you didn’t make a spreadsheet,” she said.

“I considered it.” He slid the pad toward her. At the top he had written: **Trip, Party, Fancy Dinner, Stay Home**.

They had shared the small blue house outside Minneapolis for six years, long enough to know which floorboards creaked and which arguments weren’t worth having. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would change the life they had built. Still, ten years seemed too important to let pass with takeout and a movie.

Lena wanted to invite friends—the people who had watched them move apartments, adopt a nervous shelter dog, and survive Marcus’s layoff. Marcus preferred something private. His father had recently been ill, and the thought of hosting thirty people exhausted him.

They talked while rain tapped the windows. At first, each defended a plan. Lena described strings of lights in the backyard. Marcus showed her prices for a cabin near Lake Superior. Then their dog, Pepper, nosed between their knees, and Lena laughed.

“What if we do both, smaller?” she asked.

They decided on a weekend at the lake in October, followed by a casual backyard dinner the next Saturday. No speeches, no rented tables—just soup, bread, a firepit, and the friends who had mattered most.

That afternoon they drove to the hardware store for firewood and outdoor bulbs. On the way home, Marcus pulled into the parking lot of the diner where they’d had their first date.

Inside, they shared fries and ordered two slices of pie.

“We’re terrible at choosing one thing,” Lena said.

Marcus raised his coffee cup. “Maybe that’s why we work.”

She tapped her cup against his. Their anniversary would not look like anyone else’s milestone, but it would look like them: negotiated, practical, warm, and shared.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a stack of takeout menus beside him.

“Are you planning our anniversary or avoiding it?” she asked, setting down two grocery bags.

“Both,” he said. “Ten years feels like it should involve more than noodles and a movie.”

They had met at a friend’s birthday party in Chicago, moved in together four years later, and recently bought a small house outside Madison, Wisconsin. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony was necessary. Still, the anniversary mattered. It marked the night they had chosen each other, long before mortgages and shared health insurance forms.

Maya wanted to travel back to Chicago for the weekend. Ben liked the idea but worried about the cost. Their furnace had started making a metallic rattle, and a technician had warned them not to ignore it.

“What if we do one night instead of two?” Maya suggested. “Take the train, stay somewhere modest, and go to that pizza place where we had our first real date.”

Ben turned the laptop toward her. He had already found train tickets.

“You were planning,” she said.

“I was cautiously researching.”

They spent the afternoon comparing hotels and laughing at old photographs on Maya’s phone. In one, Ben wore the brown jacket she had once pretended to like. In another, Maya stood in their first apartment holding a smoke detector after burning dinner.

By evening, they had a plan: a Saturday train to Chicago, pizza, a walk along the lake if the weather held, and coffee the next morning before returning home. They also agreed to exchange letters instead of gifts.

On their anniversary, the lake wind was sharp, and the pizza place had a forty-minute wait. They stood outside under a flickering heater, reading their letters aloud.

Neither letter mentioned marriage. Both mentioned the house, the years behind them, and the ordinary mornings they hoped still lay ahead.


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. Across the counter, Marcus opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“We have half a bell pepper,” he said. “And maybe one good carrot.”

“The broccoli’s still fine.”

Marcus lifted the container and inspected it. “Define fine.”

Lena took it from him, snapped off a yellowing floret, and handed it back. “Fine enough for Tuesday.”

They decided on stir-fry. Marcus started the rice while Lena sliced the vegetables. Their apartment was small enough that they had to negotiate space without discussing it: she stepped aside so he could reach the trash; he moved the cutting board when she opened the drawer for a wooden spoon.

“Chicken or eggs?” Lena asked.

Marcus checked the date on the chicken package. “Chicken tonight. Eggs tomorrow.”

He cut the meat into uneven pieces while she heated oil in their largest skillet. When the pan began to smoke, Lena pulled it off the burner and opened the window.

“Too hot,” she said.

“You always say it should be really hot.”

“Really hot, not fire-alarm hot.”

They laughed, then waited for the smoke to thin. Marcus added the chicken carefully. Lena mixed soy sauce, honey, and a little vinegar in a coffee mug because all the small bowls were in the dishwasher.

Twenty minutes later, they carried their plates to the table. Marcus went back for water while Lena cleared a stack of mail from his chair. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the sauce had turned out sweeter than either expected.

“It needs something,” Marcus said.

Lena brought over the jar of chili crisp. They each added a spoonful.

For a few minutes, they ate quietly. Cars moved along the wet street below their window, tires hissing on pavement.

“Lunch leftovers?” Marcus asked.

Lena divided what remained into two containers. “Only if you wash the pan.”

He stood and rolled up his sleeves. “Fair.”

She leaned against the counter, finishing her water while he filled the sink, and they discussed whether they had enough detergent to wait until the weekend to go shopping.


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

“What are our options?” he asked, unclipping Rosie’s leash.

“Chicken thighs, half a bag of green beans, and rice,” Maya said. “Or we order pizza and pretend the vegetables don’t exist.”

Ben opened the freezer, then the pantry. “Chicken. We ordered pizza Saturday.”

Maya set the chicken on the counter while Ben filled a pot with water for the rice. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had learned to announce movements.

“Behind you,” Maya said, reaching for the olive oil.

“Drawer,” Ben said, stepping sideways to get a measuring cup.

They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to develop routines but not long enough to stop negotiating them. Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Ben rinsed the rice, spilling a few grains into the sink.

“Too much water,” Maya said.

“It’s exactly what the bag says.”

“The bag is wrong.”

Ben poured a little out anyway.

While the chicken cooked in a skillet, Maya trimmed the green beans. Ben sorted the mail at the counter, putting a utility bill near her elbow and recycling two advertisements.

“Can you add detergent to the list?” he asked.

“You used the last of it.”

“I’m adding it to the list,” he said, picking up her phone.

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly soft, which Maya did not mention until Ben did.

“You were right,” he said.

“I know.”

He gave her the last crisp piece of chicken skin in exchange for some of her green beans. They talked about Ben’s meeting, Maya’s sister’s upcoming visit, and whether they could afford a new couch this month.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers into one container for lunch. Ben washed the skillet while she wiped the stove. Rosie waited beneath them, hopeful and patient, until Ben dropped a single green bean.


By six-thirty, Mara had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Evan came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Coupon for a mattress. Your dentist sent a reminder.”

Mara sighed. “Put that one on top.”

They had planned to make tacos, but the avocados were still hard and neither of them had remembered tortillas. Evan opened the refrigerator and looked inside as if a better option might appear.

“We have chicken,” he said. “And half a bag of broccoli.”

“And rice, if I can figure out why this needs two different sets of instructions.”

Evan took the package and read it while Mara pulled a skillet from the cabinet. They decided on chicken and broccoli over rice, with bottled teriyaki sauce. Mara cut the chicken into uneven pieces while Evan rinsed the rice. When he spilled a few grains into the sink, she pointed at them with the knife.

“Those were the best ones.”

“I could tell,” he said, scooping them out.

The apartment filled with the smell of garlic after Mara added a spoonful from a jar. Evan steamed the broccoli, checking it too often and letting heat escape each time. They talked about whether to renew their lease in August. The rent would probably go up again, but moving sounded exhausting.

“Let’s wait until they send the number,” Mara said.

“Agreed. No worrying without paperwork.”

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the sauce was sweeter than either remembered, but they both went back for seconds. Evan told her about a coworker who had accidentally replied to the entire department. Mara described the dog she had seen riding in a bicycle basket during lunch.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers while he washed the skillet. They debated watching one episode of a show and both pretended they would stop after that. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, and Evan handed Mara the last clean container lid.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Mark came in from walking the dog, carrying the mail under one arm.

“Anything important?” Lena asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the previous tenant.” He set the envelopes beside the fruit bowl and washed his hands. “What can I do?”

She nodded toward a cutting board. “Can you slice the zucchini? I’m making couscous, and there are two chicken breasts left.”

Mark opened the refrigerator and found the chicken behind a carton of eggs. “These need to be used tonight.”

“That’s the idea.”

While Lena heated olive oil in a skillet, Mark cut the zucchini into uneven half-moons. She seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika, then laid it in the pan. It hissed loudly enough that they both stepped back.

“Did you pay the internet bill?” Mark asked.

“I scheduled it for Friday.”

“Good. I’ll transfer my half tonight.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. Mark put the zucchini in a second pan, then lowered the heat when the edges browned too quickly. Lena poured boiling water over the couscous and covered the pot with a plate because they had lost the proper lid months ago.

Dinner was ready in twenty minutes. Mark divided the chicken, giving Lena the larger piece until she noticed and traded plates with him. They ate at the small table near the window, with the dog lying beneath it.

“The zucchini’s a little soft,” Mark said.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s very soft.”

Lena laughed. “Next time, you’re in charge of the entire meal.”

“Deal. Tacos.”

They discussed whether they needed laundry detergent and decided they could wait until the weekend. After eating, Lena packed the remaining couscous into a container for lunch. Mark washed the skillet while she dried it. Neither wanted to clean the stove, so they agreed to do it tomorrow, turned off the kitchen light, and carried their tea into the living room.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Lena home. She set two grocery bags on the kitchen counter and called, “I forgot the cilantro.”

Marcus looked up from the sink, where he was washing rice in a metal bowl. “We’ll survive.”

“We’re making tacos.”

“We’ll survive sadly.”

Lena nudged him with her elbow and unpacked chicken thighs, tortillas, a lime, and a can of black beans. They had planned the meal by text that afternoon, changing their minds twice before settling on something quick. Marcus had already sliced half an onion and was heating a skillet.

“Do you want the chicken spicy?” Lena asked.

“Medium spicy. Tomorrow-me has a meeting.”

She mixed chili powder, cumin, salt, and oil in a bowl while he opened the beans. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other: Marcus stepped back so Lena could reach the stove; Lena moved the cutting board so he could find the can opener. A podcast played quietly from his phone, though neither of them was following it.

When the chicken hit the pan, oil snapped onto the stovetop.

“I’ll clean that,” Lena said.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I did.”

“You wiped it in a very philosophical way.”

She laughed and squeezed lime over the chicken. Marcus warmed the tortillas directly over a burner, turning them with tongs until the edges browned. He also found half a bag of shredded cabbage in the refrigerator and inspected it.

“Still good?”

Lena smelled it. “Good enough for Tuesday.”

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Marcus went back for hot sauce; Lena brought two glasses of water. Outside, tires hissed on the wet street.

The tacos were messy, and one tortilla split immediately. Lena caught the filling with her fork.

“Needs cilantro,” she said.

Marcus nodded seriously. “A devastating omission.”

They ate anyway, discussing whether to renew their lease and whose turn it was to call the landlord about the rattling heater. Afterward, Lena packed the leftover chicken for lunch while Marcus filled the sink with soapy water. Neither mentioned dessert until he found two chocolate cookies in the cabinet, and they split them without bothering to get clean plates.


Maya got home first, dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and opened the refrigerator. There was half a bunch of broccoli, two chicken breasts thawing on the bottom shelf, and a container of rice from Sunday.

She texted Ben: **Stir-fry? We need soy sauce.**

His reply came while she was changing out of her work clothes: **Already at the store. Regular or low sodium?**

**Regular. And scallions if they’re not sad.**

By the time Ben arrived, Maya had cut the broccoli into uneven florets and started heating the rice in a saucepan with a spoonful of water. He set the grocery bag on the counter and held up a bunch of scallions.

“Least sad ones available,” he said.

“Good work.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen. Ben sliced the chicken while Maya mixed soy sauce, honey, and a little vinegar in a mug. When he reached for the cutting board she was using, she slid it toward him without looking.

“Garlic?” he asked.

“Two cloves.”

“You always say two and then add a third.”

“Then three.”

He laughed and peeled them. The skillet hissed when the chicken went in. Maya opened the window above the sink before the smoke alarm could complain. Ben cooked the broccoli after the chicken, leaving it crisp because Maya disliked it soft. She poured in the sauce, and he stirred while it bubbled and darkened.

They ate at the small table beside the living room, using bowls that didn’t match. Ben added hot sauce. Maya took one bite and went back for more scallions.

“Do we have to deal with the laundry tonight?” he asked.

“It’s been in the dryer since yesterday.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“That’s a folding-while-watching-TV yes.”

They discussed whose turn it was to choose a show, then compromised on an episode of something they had both half-forgotten. After dinner, Ben packed the leftovers for lunch. Maya washed the skillet, and he dried it, standing close enough that they bumped elbows twice and blamed each other both times.


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

“I wasn’t sure if we were doing pasta,” he said, looking up from his phone.

Maya put her tote bag on a kitchen chair and opened the refrigerator. “What else do we have?”

They stood side by side, taking inventory: half a bag of spinach, three eggs, Parmesan, a jar of tomato sauce, and one zucchini that had begun to soften at the end.

“Pasta,” she decided.

Daniel turned on the burner while Maya changed out of her work clothes. When she came back in sweatpants, he was slicing the zucchini into uneven half-moons.

“Those are enormous,” she said.

“They’ll shrink.”

“They won’t shrink that much.”

She took the knife, cut the larger pieces in half, and handed it back. Daniel heated olive oil in a skillet and added the zucchini. Maya salted the water, then leaned against the counter and read aloud a text from their landlord about someone leaving cardboard boxes beside the recycling bin.

“Not us,” Daniel said.

“I know. I broke ours down.”

The water boiled. Maya poured in the pasta while Daniel stirred the sauce into the browned zucchini. He added spinach by handfuls, watching it collapse. They debated whether to use all the Parmesan and agreed to save some for eggs in the morning.

They ate at the small table near the window. Daniel got up for red pepper flakes; Maya brought over two glasses of water and the mail. Between bites, they opened an electricity bill and discussed lowering the thermostat at night.

“This is good,” Maya said, twisting pasta around her fork.

“The zucchini shrank,” Daniel pointed out.

“Some of it.”

Afterward, he washed the pot and skillet while she packed the leftovers into a plastic container. She wiped the stove, he dried the plates, and they left the container on the counter until it was cool enough for the refrigerator.


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.

“We should cook these tonight,” she said. “The date says tomorrow.”

From the kitchen table, Ben looked up from his laptop. “Do we have anything to go with them?”

“Half a bag of green beans. Rice. One sad lemon.”

“That sounds like dinner.”

They rented a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, close enough to the highway that traffic hummed behind the building. Maya put the chicken on a sheet pan while Ben closed his laptop and rinsed the green beans. They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough to divide kitchen tasks without discussing them, though not long enough to agree on how much garlic was too much.

Ben minced three cloves.

Maya glanced at the cutting board. “All of that?”

“You won’t complain when you’re eating it.”

She mixed olive oil, salt, pepper, and paprika in a bowl, then rubbed it over the chicken. Ben tossed the beans with garlic and added them to the pan. While the oven heated, he measured rice into a pot, and Maya squeezed the lemon over everything, catching two seeds with her fingers.

They ate twenty-five minutes later at the small table by the window. The chicken skin had crisped at the edges, but some of the green beans were wrinkled and dark.

“I overdid those,” Ben said.

“They’re fine.” Maya took another forkful. “Actually, they’re good.”

They talked about ordinary things: her meeting that ran long, the strange noise his car had started making, whether they could visit his sister on Sunday. Ben said he would call the mechanic in the morning. Maya reminded him they were almost out of coffee.

Afterward, she packed the leftover rice and chicken into one container for lunch. Ben washed the pan, scraping at a stubborn black spot while Maya dried the plates.

“Want tea?” he asked.

She checked the time. “Only if it’s decaf.”

He filled the kettle. Outside, another rush of cars passed on the highway, and inside, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and lemon.


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, carrying a damp leash and two envelopes he had found in the mailbox.

“Electric bill and something from your dentist,” he said.

“Put them by my laptop, please.” Maya shook the beans into a skillet. “Rice or pasta?”

Ben opened the refrigerator and considered its contents. They had half a jar of tomato sauce, three eggs, leftover rice, and a package of chicken thighs they needed to use.

“Rice,” he decided. “We can make bowls.”

He washed his hands, then took the chicken from the refrigerator. While Maya measured rice and water into a saucepan, Ben trimmed the meat with kitchen scissors. They moved around each other without much thought, though Maya had to nudge him aside to reach the salt.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping back.

“You always stand in front of the cabinet I need.”

“It’s my special skill.”

He seasoned the chicken with paprika, garlic powder, and too much black pepper. Maya noticed but said nothing. She added soy sauce to the green beans and lowered the heat under the rice.

As the chicken cooked, Ben fed the dog and wiped the counter. Maya packed the remaining raw thighs into a freezer bag and wrote the date on it. They discussed whether they had enough laundry detergent to wait until the weekend sale. Ben checked under the sink and reported that they did.

They ate at the small table by the window, each with rice, sliced chicken, and green beans in a cereal bowl. The chicken was peppery, but good.

“I’ll cook tomorrow,” Ben said.

“You cooked tonight.”

“We both cooked.”

Maya nodded. “Then you can choose tomorrow.”

After dinner, she rinsed the plates while he loaded the dishwasher. He saved the leftover rice in a plastic container, and she set the coffee maker for morning. Before leaving the kitchen, Ben turned off the light. Maya turned it back on, returned for the dentist envelope, and switched it off again.


At six fifteen, Maya stood in front of the open refrigerator, holding a package of chicken thighs and trying to remember when she had bought them.

“Sunday,” Ben said, looking over her shoulder. He set his laptop bag beside the kitchen table. “They’re fine.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence for someone who labels leftovers ‘food.’”

Ben took the package and checked the date. “Tomorrow. We should cook them tonight.”

They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for eleven months, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Maya handled the chicken while Ben started rice, measuring water into the dented saucepan they had inherited from his sister.

“Broccoli?” he asked.

“Is it still good?”

He pulled the bag from the crisper and examined a yellowing floret. “Good enough if we roast it.”

Maya turned on the oven. She tossed the chicken with olive oil, paprika, garlic powder, salt, and the last spoonful of mustard. Ben cut the broccoli, dropping the stems into the trash until Maya stopped him.

“You can eat those.”

“I know you can eat them.”

She took the knife and sliced the stems thinly. “Now we are.”

While the sheet pan cooked, Ben rinsed the cutting board and Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through their shared calendar. The electric bill was due Friday. His parents were coming Saturday afternoon.

“We need to clean the bathroom before they get here,” she said.

“I’ll do it Thursday.”

“You said that last time.”

“And then I did it Friday.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with the sheet pan between them and the rice pot on a folded dish towel. The chicken skin had crisped at the edges, and the broccoli stems were better than Ben expected, though he did not say so immediately.

Maya noticed him taking seconds. “Interesting.”

“They’re acceptable.”

Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the alley. Ben reached for the hot sauce and passed it to her first. They discussed whether to watch one episode of their show or two, both pretending the answer was still undecided.


By six-thirty, rain had darkened the windows of the apartment. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I looked in the door.”

“You looked at the top shelf of the door.”

Daniel crouched and found the bottle behind a jar of pickles. “I was saving the bottom shelf for later.”

They had decided on stir-fry because the chicken needed to be used and neither of them wanted to go back out. Daniel cut the chicken into uneven strips while Maya rinsed broccoli in the colander. The rice cooker clicked softly beside them.

“Those are more like chunks,” Maya said, glancing at his cutting board.

“They’ll cook.”

“Eventually.”

He cut the larger pieces in half. She heated oil in their widest skillet, the one with the loose handle, and held it steady while Daniel added the chicken. It hissed, spattering the stove.

Maya mixed soy sauce, honey, and a little vinegar in a coffee mug. Daniel stirred the chicken, then added the vegetables when she handed him the bowl. They discussed whether to include the last of the red pepper flakes and agreed on half a teaspoon. Last time, Daniel had used a full spoon and they had both regretted it.

While the sauce thickened, Maya packed leftover rice into a container for her lunch. Daniel wiped the counter and set out two mismatched bowls. He filled water glasses from the filter pitcher and replaced it in the refrigerator empty.

“You’re refilling that later,” Maya said.

“I accept these terms.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, where unopened mail had been pushed to one side. The broccoli was slightly undercooked, and one piece of chicken was larger than the rest, but the sauce was good.

Daniel reached for another spoonful. “Better than takeout.”

“Cheaper, anyway.”

Afterward, Maya washed the skillet while Daniel dried the bowls. He refilled the pitcher without being reminded, and she turned on the radio for the weather report. Outside, cars moved through the wet street, their headlights sliding across the kitchen wall.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and one questionable zucchini,” she called.

From the living room, Ben closed his laptop. “How questionable?”

Maya held up the zucchini. Its skin was wrinkled at one end but otherwise firm.

“I’ve eaten worse,” he said.

“That isn’t reassuring.”

They decided on pasta with chicken and vegetables, mostly because it required one pan and one pot. Ben filled the pot and set it on the stove while Maya cut the chicken into pieces. Their kitchen was narrow, so they had learned to move around each other with small adjustments: a hand on a shoulder, a quiet “behind you,” a sideways step to open a drawer.

Ben sliced the zucchini and found a soft spot near the stem. He cut it off and dropped the rest into the pan. Maya added garlic, then complained when it browned too quickly.

“You turned the heat up,” she said.

“The water was taking forever.”

“That’s a different burner.”

He looked at the controls. “Fair point.”

They salvaged the garlic, added the chicken, and opened the window when the smoke alarm gave a warning chirp. While the pasta cooked, Maya rinsed the spinach. Ben grated the last of a block of Parmesan and divided it unevenly between two bowls.

“I saw that,” Maya said.

He transferred a spoonful from his bowl to hers.

They ate at the small table by the window. The pasta needed salt, and the zucchini was softer than either of them preferred, but the chicken was good. They talked about a leaking faucet, whether they could postpone grocery shopping until Saturday, and an email Ben had been avoiding.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Ben washed the pan while she dried it. When they finished, he turned off the kitchen light, and she checked the stove knobs, as she always did.

“Tea?” he asked.

Maya glanced at the clock. “Only if you make it.”

He filled the kettle.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions from the unit downstairs. Maya set her laptop on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen, where Ben was standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have chicken,” he said, moving a carton of eggs aside. “And half a bag of spinach that’s approaching the end.”

Maya checked the pantry. “Rice?”

“Enough if we don’t get ambitious.”

They settled on chicken, rice, and spinach. Ben rinsed the rice while Maya trimmed the chicken thighs. The kitchen was narrow, so they had learned to move around each other without much discussion. When Maya opened the drawer for a knife, Ben shifted toward the sink. When he reached for the salt, she passed it behind her.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

“Left a message. I also sent an email with a picture of the leak.”

“The ceiling looks worse.”

“I know. I put the bucket back.”

Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Ben heated a skillet and added oil. It popped when the first thigh went in, and he lowered the burner.

“Too hot,” Maya said.

“I noticed.”

While the chicken browned, she put the rice on and sorted through the spinach, discarding two slippery leaves. Ben washed the cutting board and wiped the counter. They debated adding garlic, then agreed they were too tired to mince it. Instead, Maya squeezed lemon over the finished chicken, and Ben stirred the spinach into the hot pan until it wilted.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, buses sighed at the corner and someone dragged a trash bin down the alley.

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

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s definitely crunchy.”

Maya took another bite. “Call it texture.”

He laughed and divided the last piece of chicken between their plates. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben filled the sink with soapy water. She dried the skillet, and he checked the bucket under the ceiling stain. Nothing had dripped. For tonight, that counted as good news.


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. Her boyfriend, Eric, came in carrying the mail and dropped it on the counter.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Grocery coupons. Something addressed to the previous tenant.”

Maya nodded toward the refrigerator. “I was thinking pasta.”

Eric opened the door and looked inside. “We still have that chicken.”

“It’s been in there since Sunday.”

He checked the label. “Sell-by date is tomorrow.”

They agreed on chicken, green beans, and the last two potatoes. Eric scrubbed the potatoes while Maya trimmed a pale edge from one chicken breast and cut both pieces in half so they would cook faster. Their kitchen was narrow, and they moved around each other by habit: she stepped aside for the spice drawer; he reached over her for the olive oil.

“Paprika?” she asked.

“Sure. Not too much.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always ignore me.”

She shook paprika over the chicken anyway, then added salt and garlic powder. Eric cubed the potatoes and spread them on a sheet pan. They debated whether the oven would take too long, but decided roasting required less attention than frying.

While the food cooked, Maya rinsed the cutting board and Eric emptied the dish rack. He told her about a meeting that had run past five. She told him the landlord had texted about inspecting the smoke detectors on Thursday.

“Can you be here?” she asked.

“I can work from home in the morning.”

The green beans went into a skillet with butter and a spoonful of water. At seven-fifteen, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. The potatoes were unevenly browned, and one piece of chicken was slightly dry.

Eric cut it and said, “Still better than takeout.”

Maya pushed the salt toward him. “And cheaper.”

They ate while discussing what to watch later and whether they needed milk. Afterward, Eric packed the leftovers for lunch, and Maya washed the skillet, both of them listening to the evening traffic outside.


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, unhooked the leash, and joined her.

“What are we working with?” he asked.

“Half a bag of spinach, four eggs, and that chicken we said we’d cook yesterday.”

Marcus checked the package. “Still good.”

They decided on chicken tacos because the tortillas were already open. Elena sliced an onion while Marcus cut the chicken into strips. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit: she stepped aside to let him reach the spice cabinet; he carried the cutting board to the stove when she needed the counter.

“Cumin?” he asked.

“And chili powder. Not too much.”

“You always say that, and then you add hot sauce.”

“That’s different.”

While the chicken browned, Elena rinsed the spinach and found a lime in the produce drawer, slightly hard but usable. Marcus warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs until the edges blistered. One caught briefly, and he dropped it onto a plate.

“That one’s yours,” Elena said.

“Chef’s portion.”

They ate at the small table by the window. Marcus filled both water glasses while Elena brought over the skillet and a bowl of spinach dressed with lime and salt. They assembled tacos as they talked about the day: her manager had moved a deadline; his train had stalled between stations. Neither story required advice, though they each offered some anyway.

Halfway through dinner, Elena remembered the rent was due Friday. Marcus opened the banking app on his phone, checked their shared household account, and said they were covered.

Afterward, he packed the remaining chicken into a container for Elena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he wiped the table and stacked the plates in the dishwasher. The burned tortilla stayed untouched.

“You’re not eating your chef’s portion?” she asked.

Marcus folded it around the last piece of chicken and ate it over the sink. “No waste,” he said, brushing crumbs from his shirt.


By six-thirty, Daniel had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, turning a package of chicken thighs over in his hands.

“These need to be cooked tonight,” he said.

Maya looked up from the mail she was sorting at the table. “Okay. Chicken, then. Do we have broccoli?”

“One crown. It’s a little tired.”

“So are we.”

Daniel laughed and set the chicken beside the stove. They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, and most weeknight dinners were decided by whatever was closest to going bad.

Maya rinsed the broccoli while Daniel heated a skillet. She cut away a yellowing patch, then chopped the rest into uneven florets. When Daniel opened the cabinet, he found half a box of couscous behind the rice.

“This is faster,” he said.

“Perfect. I’m starving.”

He seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Maya added oil to the broccoli and spread it on a sheet pan, then paused.

“Four hundred twenty-five?”

“Sure.”

“That didn’t sound confident.”

“It’s broccoli, not a mortgage application.”

While the food cooked, Maya packed the leftover mail into a drawer and wiped the table. Daniel filled two glasses with tap water and checked the chicken with the thermometer his mother had given them. It needed another three minutes.

They ate at the small table by the window. The couscous was slightly clumpy, but the chicken was crisp at the edges, and the broccoli had browned well.

Maya asked whether he could take her car in for an oil change Saturday. Daniel said yes, if she came with him to pick up shelves afterward.

“For the living room?” she asked.

“For the boxes still sitting in the living room.”

She considered this, chewing. “Deal.”

After dinner, Daniel put the leftovers into one container for Maya’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he dried the plates. Neither mentioned the television until the kitchen was clean. Then Maya turned off the overhead light, and they carried their water glasses to the couch.


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

“We have chicken,” she called.

From the living room, Daniel shut his laptop. “How old is the chicken?”

“Bought it Sunday.”

“So, probably still chicken.”

Maya gave him a look as he came into the kitchen. They had lived together for two years, long enough for him to recognize the difference between her amused look and her truly annoyed one. This was amused.

He took the package from the bottom shelf and checked the date. “Tacos?”

“No tortillas.”

“Rice bowls?”

Maya nodded. “You start the rice. I’ll cut vegetables.”

Their kitchen was narrow, so they worked in turns. Daniel measured rice into the small pot, rinsed it twice, then added water. Maya sliced a red pepper and half an onion on the only clear section of counter. When Daniel reached past her for the salt, she shifted without looking, an old practiced movement.

“Did you call the landlord?” she asked.

“I emailed. He says someone can come Thursday.”

“I’m working from home Thursday.”

“I know. I told him after noon.”

She dropped the vegetables into a hot skillet. The onions hissed, and Daniel opened the window above the sink before the smoke alarm could complain. He cut the chicken into uneven pieces while Maya mixed soy sauce, honey, and a spoonful of mustard in a coffee mug.

“That seems questionable,” he said.

“It was good last time.”

“Last time had garlic.”

They both looked toward the empty garlic basket.

Dinner took twenty-five minutes. They carried their bowls to the small table by the window, where unopened mail had been pushed into a stack. The sauce was sweeter than either expected, but the pepper still had some crunch.

Daniel added hot sauce. Maya stole one of his larger pieces of chicken.

“Thursday after noon?” she reminded him.

He reached for his phone and showed her the landlord’s reply.

“Good,” she said, handing it back. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin along the sidewalk. They ate quietly for a minute, then began deciding who would wash the pan.


At six-thirty, Maya set her laptop on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen, where Ben was standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“An idea.”

They had planned to cook, but neither had planned what. Maya checked the vegetable drawer and found half a bag of spinach, two bell peppers, and a lemon that had gone hard at one end. Ben opened the freezer and held up a package of chicken thighs.

“Too late for those,” Maya said. “They’re solid.”

He put them back. “Pasta?”

They settled on spaghetti with spinach and peppers. Ben filled a pot with water while Maya sliced the vegetables. The cutting board rocked against the counter, so she folded a dish towel and tucked it underneath.

“Where did you learn that?” Ben asked.

“My mother. After watching me nearly lose a finger.”

Ben poured olive oil into a skillet. He added garlic too soon, and it began to brown before the peppers were ready. Maya slid the pan off the burner while he hurried to finish chopping.

“Saved it,” he said.

“Barely.”

As the pasta cooked, Ben cleared yesterday’s mail from the small dining table. He opened an electricity bill, frowned, and placed it beside Maya’s keys.

“We should talk about the thermostat,” he said.

“After dinner.”

Maya drained the spaghetti, reserving a mug of cloudy water. Ben stirred the spinach into the peppers, then added the pasta and a splash from the mug. They tasted it together. It needed salt, then pepper, then more lemon than either expected.

They ate across from each other under the pendant light. Ben grated Parmesan over both bowls. Maya told him about a tense meeting at work; he described a customer who had called three times about the same order.

Halfway through, they agreed the pasta was better than takeout and cheaper, too.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben washed the skillet. She adjusted the thermostat by one degree, and he pretended not to notice.


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. Daniel came in from taking the recycling downstairs, rubbing his hands against the March chill.

“We still doing chicken?” he asked.

“If it smells okay.”

He opened the refrigerator and found the package on the bottom shelf. “Today’s the date.”

“That means it’s fine today.”

“That is not how dates work.”

Maya took the package, sniffed it, and handed it back. “Fine.”

Daniel set a skillet on the stove while she filled a saucepan with water. They had half a zucchini, a red pepper beginning to wrinkle, and three green onions. Maya chopped the vegetables. Daniel trimmed the chicken and sprinkled it with salt, pepper, and the last of a jar of paprika.

“Add garlic,” she said.

“You used it Sunday.”

“There’s powdered.”

He found the garlic powder behind the cinnamon and shook some into the pan. The chicken hissed when it hit the oil. Maya turned on the vent, which rattled loudly enough that they had to raise their voices.

“Did you call the landlord?” she asked.

“I emailed. He said someone might come Thursday.”

“Might?”

“That’s the word he used.”

She sighed and stirred the vegetables into the skillet. Daniel poured the couscous into boiling water, then checked the box again and turned off the burner.

While everything rested, they cleared mail from the small table. Maya stacked two grocery flyers for recycling; Daniel saved a coupon for detergent. They discussed whether they needed milk and agreed they could wait until tomorrow.

The chicken was a little dry, but the vegetables were good. They ate from shallow bowls, adding hot sauce after the first few bites. Daniel told her about a coworker who had accidentally joined a video meeting with a cat filter on. Maya laughed, then described a customer who had argued for ten minutes over a five-dollar fee.

Afterward, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch. She wiped the counter, turned off the kitchen light, and followed him to the couch, where they debated what to watch until both admitted they were too tired for anything complicated.