Maya heard the garage door rattling open just as she finished rinsing the rice. She set the pot on the stove and checked the clock above the refrigerator: 6:17. Daniel came in through the laundry room carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the neighborhood market.

“I got cilantro,” he announced, toeing off his shoes. “And limes. They were out of the little ones, so I bought four enormous ones.”

Maya looked inside the sack. “These could be softballs.”

“They were sixty-nine cents each. I panicked.”

Their townhouse smelled faintly of the candle they had burned the night before and the onions Maya had begun sautéing. Daniel changed out of his work shirt while she opened a can of black beans. When he returned in sweatpants, he washed his hands and took over at the cutting board.

“How was the meeting?” she asked.

“Long. Greg used the phrase ‘circle back’ six times.”

“Only six?”

“I started counting late.”

Maya laughed and nudged the skillet toward him. He added sliced peppers while she seasoned the beans with cumin and found the tortillas behind a container of leftover soup. The dishwasher was still full from the night before, so Daniel unloaded it between stirring the vegetables, stacking plates in the cabinet and handing her the colander she had been searching for.

They talked about whether the electric bill seemed high, his sister’s upcoming visit, and the damp towel someone had left on the bathroom floor.

“Someone?” Daniel said.

“The responsible party knows who he is.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ll speak to him.”

By seven, they had assembled bowls with rice, beans, peppers, avocado, and far too much cilantro. Maya carried them to the small table by the window while Daniel filled two glasses with water.

Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Inside, Daniel squeezed half a giant lime over his dinner and immediately regretted it.

Maya slid him her napkin. “You panicked again.”

“Apparently that’s my thing today,” he said, and they began to eat.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen in socks, slicing a yellow pepper. The townhouse was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the local news playing softly from a speaker on the counter.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a canvas grocery bag. He set it beside the sink and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction again. I got the tortillas, though.”

“Did you remember cilantro?”

He paused, then reached into the bag with exaggerated caution. “Yes.”

Maya laughed. “Good. You can stay.”

They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough that dinner followed familiar patterns. She chopped vegetables while he rinsed black beans and warmed a skillet. Their cat, Olive, appeared from the hallway and sat beside her empty bowl, although she had been fed less than an hour earlier.

“Don’t believe her,” Maya said. “She’s running a scam.”

Evan looked down at Olive. “A convincing scam.”

He opened the refrigerator and shifted a carton of eggs, two jars of salsa, and a container of leftovers to make room for the groceries. “We should clean this out.”

“You say that every Tuesday.”

“And someday, on a Tuesday, I’ll mean it.”

They talked about small things while the onions softened: Maya’s long meeting, Evan’s coworker bringing doughnuts, the utility bill that had arrived that morning. He stirred cumin into the beans, and she set plates on the narrow table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb.

When everything was ready, they carried the skillet, tortillas, and bowls of toppings to the table. Evan noticed Maya had left her laptop open on the couch.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Maybe for twenty minutes.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Thirty,” she admitted.

They sat down, knees bumping beneath the table. Olive settled between their chairs, hopeful and patient. Evan handed Maya the salsa, and she passed him the cheese without being asked.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed them both home. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel changed out of his work shoes near the front door.

“Did you get the rice?” she called.

Daniel stopped with one sock half off. “I thought you said we had rice.”

“I said we had enough for lunch.”

He checked the pantry anyway, moving aside a box of cereal and two cans of black beans. At the back, he found a nearly empty bag. “This is at least half a cup.”

“For two people?”

“If we believe in ourselves.”

Maya laughed and slid the peppers into a bowl. They had lived together for fourteen months, long enough to know which jokes would prevent a minor annoyance from becoming an argument. Daniel pulled on slippers, washed his hands, and began chopping an onion. He cut it unevenly, as always, but Maya had stopped correcting him.

They decided to stretch the rice with the black beans. While Daniel opened a can, Maya heated oil in the scratched skillet they had bought at a thrift store when they first moved in. The kitchen was narrow, so they worked around each other by habit: she stepped aside for the colander; he reached above her for the cumin.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes that should’ve been an email.” She tipped the peppers into the pan. “How was traffic?”

“Forty minutes that should’ve been a train.”

The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full of clean dishes from the night before. Daniel unloaded plates while the rice simmered. Maya wiped a splash of tomato sauce from the stove and set two glasses of water on the small table by the window.

When dinner was ready, they divided the rice, beans, and vegetables between two chipped blue bowls. Daniel added hot sauce; Maya took the last clean napkin.

Outside, tires hissed on the wet street. Inside, they ate with their knees almost touching, discussing whether they needed laundry detergent and whose turn it was to call the landlord about the bathroom faucet.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect Maya standing at the counter, still wearing her office badge. She sliced a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“Did you use the last lime?” he asked.

“I used half of it,” Maya said. “The other half is in the door.”

Daniel found it behind a jar of mustard, slightly dried at the edges. “This lime has seen things.”

“It’s fine. Roll it on the counter.”

They were making chicken tacos, the default dinner when neither of them had planned ahead. Daniel heated a skillet while Maya finished the vegetables and pushed the scraps into the compost bin beneath the sink. Their cat, Ernest, appeared at the sound of the chicken package opening and sat beside Daniel’s feet with exaggerated patience.

“You already ate,” Daniel told him.

“He disputes that,” Maya said.

The dishwasher was full of clean dishes, so while the chicken cooked, Maya unloaded it. Daniel added cumin and chili powder to the pan, then opened a window when the spices made them both cough. Outside, someone dragged a recycling bin down the sidewalk. A television murmured through the wall from the neighboring townhouse.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long. We decided to schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

Maya handed him two plates. “How was your day?”

“My printer jammed three times, and Kevin brought doughnuts.”

“So, mixed.”

They ate at the small table they had bought secondhand when they moved in together two years earlier. Daniel remembered the salsa only after they had sat down, and Maya got up for it because she was closer.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers into containers for lunch. She wiped the counters and wrote “limes” on the grocery list clipped to the refrigerator. They debated watching one episode of their show, both knowing it would probably become two.

Daniel turned off the kitchen light. Ernest jumped onto Maya’s chair, inspecting the table for anything they had missed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. The dishwasher hummed beside her, still full from the night before.

“Is that the new bag?” Daniel asked as he came in from the garage, setting his keys in the bowl by the door.

“Apparently it takes forty-five minutes,” she said. “So dinner will be ready sometime tomorrow.”

He opened the refrigerator and leaned inside. They had lived together for two years, long enough for Maya to know he was not looking for anything specific. “We could do pasta.”

“We did pasta Monday.”

“That explains why I can’t find any.”

She handed him a cutting board. “Chop the broccoli. I’ll make the rice and pretend I planned ahead.”

Daniel loosened his tie and washed his hands. While Maya measured water into a saucepan, he cut the broccoli into uneven florets. She picked up one piece, examined it, and cut it in half.

“They shrink,” he said.

“They do not shrink that much.”

He told her about a meeting that had lasted through lunch. She told him the upstairs neighbor had texted about a package delivered to their porch. Between stories, she seasoned chicken thighs with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika while Daniel cleared yesterday’s mail from the counter. He put a grocery coupon on the refrigerator with a magnet and dropped the rest into recycling.

When the rice began to simmer, Maya lowered the heat. Daniel heated oil in the cast-iron skillet, and the kitchen filled with the sharp sound of chicken hitting the pan. He opened the window a few inches before the smoke alarm could complain.

“Did you feed Luna?” Maya asked.

Their cat appeared at the sound of her name.

“She says no,” Daniel replied.

Luna had already eaten, but Maya added a few pieces of kibble to her bowl anyway.

They ate at the small dining table, with the skillet cooling on the stove and the dishwasher finally silent. Daniel said the broccoli was perfect. Maya said nothing, but pushed the largest floret onto his plate.


Maya heard the garage door rattle open just as she was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink. A minute later, Daniel came through the laundry room, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl beside the door.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction again.” He loosened his tie and looked into the skillet. “What are we making?”

“Stir-fry. The broccoli needs to be used before it becomes compost.”

Daniel laughed and opened the refrigerator. Their weekly meal plan, held up by a magnet from a roadside diner, said TACOS in Maya’s handwriting. He pointed at it.

“We’re off schedule.”

“We’re adapting.”

He took out a bell pepper and began slicing it while Maya measured water into the rice cooker. They had lived in the small Ohio townhouse for eleven months, long enough to develop routines without discussing them. Daniel handled knives because Maya hated sharpening them; Maya washed dishes as she cooked because clutter made Daniel anxious.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Nina said ‘circle back’ six times.” Maya poured oil into the skillet. “How was the presentation?”

“Fine, except the projector stopped working.”

“Of course it did.”

Their cat, Pickles, appeared and wound around Daniel’s ankles. He nudged her gently away from the cutting board.

“You fed her, right?”

“This morning. Dinner’s your department.”

Pickles meowed as if correcting the record.

Daniel filled her bowl, then returned to the counter. Maya added garlic and ginger to the hot oil, and the kitchen filled with their sharp, warm smell. He tipped in the vegetables while she stirred.

They ate at the secondhand table by the window, with unopened mail pushed to one side. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb.

“Do we need anything from the store?” Daniel asked.

“Coffee. Dish soap. Maybe bananas.”

He added them to his phone. Maya reached across the table and stole a piece of pepper from his plate.

“Hey.”

“You cut them better.”

After dinner, he packed the leftovers for lunch while she loaded the dishwasher. The television murmured from the living room, and Pickles settled on the rug, satisfied that everyone was finally where they belonged.


Maya came home at six carrying a canvas grocery bag and found Daniel standing at the kitchen counter, still wearing his office clothes except for his shoes. His laptop was open beside a pile of mail, and a pan of water was beginning to steam on the stove.

“You remembered pasta,” he said.

“You remembered to start the water.”

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for almost two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them much. Maya unpacked tomatoes, spinach, and a loaf of discounted Italian bread. Daniel sorted the mail into three stacks: bills, advertisements, and something from the county that looked official enough to save for later.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Three meetings about a meeting.” He loosened his collar. “Yours?”

“The printer jammed during payroll.”

They agreed, without saying so, that neither story needed further explanation.

Daniel salted the water and added the pasta. Maya chopped tomatoes while he rinsed the spinach in the colander. Their cat, Pickle, circled their ankles and complained as if he had not eaten that morning.

“You fed him, right?” Maya asked.

“I did. He’s running a misinformation campaign.”

She laughed and nudged the cat away from the stove with her foot.

While the sauce simmered, Daniel changed into a sweatshirt and took the recycling bin to the curb. Maya wiped the counter, set out two mismatched bowls, and plugged in the small lamp by the window because the overhead light felt too bright after dark.

Daniel returned rubbing his hands against the cold. “Trash pickup’s tomorrow too.”

“I’ll take it out after dinner.”

“I can do it.”

“You cooked.”

“You chopped.”

They looked at each other, amused by the familiar accounting.

They ate at the small kitchen table, talking about whether they could afford to replace the noisy dishwasher before their lease ended. Behind them, the old machine rattled through another cycle. Pickle settled under Daniel’s chair, waiting patiently for something to fall.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Rain tapped against the window over the sink. On the counter, her laptop was still open to an unfinished email.

Evan came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. He set both beside the fruit bowl and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Traffic?” Maya asked.

“Bad near the bridge. I got the rice, though.” He pulled a bag from the groceries. “And soy sauce, because the bottle in the fridge has about three drops left.”

“I was saving those.”

“For a special occasion?”

“Exactly.”

They had lived in the rented duplex for two years, long enough to know which cabinet door needed lifting before it would close and which stove burner ran hot. Evan started the rice while Maya cut the broccoli into uneven florets. He opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“Did you use the chicken?”

“Last night. There’s tofu in the bottom drawer.”

He found it behind a container of leftover soup. Together they made a quick stir-fry: Maya pressed and cubed the tofu while Evan sliced a red pepper and complained about a meeting that should have been an email. She listened, stirring garlic in the skillet, then told him about the copier jamming five minutes before she had to leave.

When the smoke alarm chirped, Evan waved a dish towel beneath it.

“It’s not even smoky,” he said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s dramatic.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the sauce was saltier than Maya intended, but neither mentioned it until Evan reached for water.

“Special-occasion soy sauce,” he said.

Maya laughed. After dinner, he packed the leftovers into two lunch containers while she loaded the dishwasher. Outside, the rain kept falling, and inside, the kitchen settled into its familiar weekday quiet.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at itself. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Ben rinsed rice in a metal strainer. They had both changed out of work clothes—Maya into old running shorts, Ben into sweatpants with a paint stain on one knee.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

Ben shook the strainer over the sink. “I emailed. He said someone can look at the bathroom fan Thursday.”

“Thursday this week?”

“He didn’t specify.”

Maya laughed. “Of course not.”

Their rented duplex still held the day’s heat, so Ben opened the back door a few inches. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked twice, then stopped. He measured water into a saucepan and set it on the stove while Maya tipped the peppers and onions into a skillet. The oil snapped loudly.

“Careful,” he said.

“I’m fine.” She stepped back anyway.

They were making rice bowls, the kind of dinner that used up whatever was left in the refrigerator. Ben found half a lime in the crisper drawer and held it up.

“Still good?”

Maya examined it. “Good enough for a Tuesday.”

While the vegetables cooked, Ben opened a can of black beans and Maya cleared mail from the small table. She set aside an electricity bill, recycled two grocery flyers, and placed a wedding invitation from Ben’s cousin beneath the salt shaker so they would remember to respond.

“Your mom texted me about that,” she said.

“She texted you?”

“She knows you don’t answer.”

“That’s unfair,” Ben said, stirring the beans. “I answer eventually.”

They ate at the table with the overhead light off, using the softer lamp near the couch. Maya added hot sauce; Ben stole a piece of avocado from her bowl. Afterward, she packed leftovers into one container for his lunch and one for hers. He washed the skillet while she wiped the counters.

“Movie?” he asked.

“One episode,” she said. “Then laundry.”

They both knew the laundry might wait until tomorrow, but neither mentioned it.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee they had forgotten to empty that morning.

Ethan came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery bag against his chest. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting it on the counter.

“The flour ones?”

“The flour ones you like. I got the other brand.”

Maya examined the package. “We’ll survive.”

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Ethan sliced chicken while Maya chopped broccoli and a red pepper. The dishwasher hummed beside them, loaded that morning after a brief debate over whose turn it was.

“How was the meeting?” Ethan asked.

“Forty minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.” She pushed the vegetables into a bowl. “How was traffic?”

“Bad by the bridge. Somebody lost a ladder.”

“A ladder?”

“In the middle lane.”

He heated a skillet, and Maya opened the refrigerator to look for the jar of salsa. Behind the milk, she found a plastic container of rice.

“Is this still good?”

Ethan glanced over. “From Sunday? Probably.”

“That’s not an answer.”

They inspected it together, decided against it, and started a fresh pot. While the chicken browned, Maya gathered mail from the end of the counter: an electric bill, a coupon flyer, and a wedding invitation from Ethan’s cousin.

“We should RSVP,” she said.

“Tonight?”

“This week.”

“That sounds more achievable.”

They ate at the small table by the living room, filling tortillas with chicken, vegetables, cheese, and the substitute salsa. Ethan admitted the tortillas were fine. Maya said the salsa was too sweet, then took another spoonful.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers while she washed the skillet. A sitcom played quietly from the television, mostly ignored. Before turning off the kitchen light, Maya wrote “coffee filters” on the magnetic notepad attached to the refrigerator.

“And good tortillas,” Ethan added.

She handed him the pen. “You write that.”


By six-thirty, traffic had thinned enough for Maya to pull into the driveway without waiting for a gap. She carried her laptop bag and the mail inside, nudging the front door shut with her heel.

“Hey,” she called.

“In here,” Ben answered from the kitchen.

He stood at the counter in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up, chopping a bell pepper. A pan warmed on the stove, and the dishwasher hummed beneath the counter. Maya set the mail beside the fruit bowl and looked into the pan.

“Fajitas?”

“That was the plan. Unless you ate Mexican for lunch.”

“No, I ate yogurt at my desk and regretted every decision that led me there.”

Ben laughed and pointed the knife toward the refrigerator. “Chicken’s on the bottom shelf. Can you slice it?”

Maya changed into an old college sweatshirt, washed her hands, and returned. As she cut the chicken into strips, Ben swept the peppers and onions into the pan. They talked over the sizzle: his meeting had gone long, her manager had moved a deadline, and the neighbor’s recycling bin had blown into their yard again.

“Did you bring it back?” Maya asked.

“I did. Heroically.”

“Very community-minded.”

While the chicken cooked, Maya warmed tortillas in the microwave and found the sour cream nearly empty. She scraped what remained into a small bowl.

“Add it to the list,” Ben said.

“The list is still on the fridge from last week.”

He glanced at the magnetic notepad, where only “coffee” was written. “Then we’re ahead.”

Maya fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. Ben set two plates on the small dining table, moving a stack of unopened mail to the windowsill. They assembled their fajitas with shredded cheese and the last of a jar of salsa.

“Do we have to deal with the electric bill tonight?” Ben asked.

Maya looked at the envelope, then at her plate. “After dinner.”

“Excellent policy.”

They sat down as the dishwasher clicked into its drying cycle. Outside, someone started a lawn mower. Inside, the cat settled beneath Maya’s chair, and they ate while deciding what to watch later.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel came in through the back door, carrying the mail under one arm and a grocery bag in the other.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting the bag down.

“We’ll survive,” Maya said. “Did you get tortillas?”

Daniel pulled them out with a small flourish. “And the good salsa.”

They had lived in the rented duplex for almost two years, long enough to stop apologizing for its quirks. The kitchen drawer stuck in damp weather, the oven ran hot, and the refrigerator hummed loudly whenever the furnace turned off. Daniel nudged the drawer closed with his hip and began rinsing a can of black beans in the colander.

On the counter, Maya’s phone played the local news at low volume. She slid the peppers and onions into a skillet, and they hissed in the oil.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody opened.”

“That sounds productive.”

She laughed. “How was traffic?”

“Bad near the bridge. Also, your car insurance thing came.” He tapped the mail pile. “Looks boring but important.”

“Perfect. My favorite category.”

While the vegetables softened, Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Maya grated cheese and packed the unused half into a plastic container. They moved around each other without much thought, opening cabinets, passing the salt, stepping aside at the sink.

Daniel set two plates on the small table beside a stack of unopened catalogs. Maya moved the catalogs to the windowsill and wiped away a ring left by her morning coffee.

“Want avocado?” he asked.

“Always.”

They assembled their tacos and sat down. Upstairs, the neighbor’s washing machine began its uneven spin cycle. Daniel reached for the salsa.

“We should do laundry tonight,” he said.

Maya took a bite and shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, and poured them both more water.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and rain. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a skillet while damp traffic hissed on the street below. She had changed out of her work clothes but still wore her office badge on its lanyard.

“You know you’re still officially employed,” Daniel said, setting two grocery bags on the counter.

Maya looked down. “That explains why dinner feels like a meeting.”

He laughed and began unpacking the bags: spinach, yogurt, a loaf of bread, and the coffee they had nearly run out of that morning. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know who noticed an empty carton and who remembered to put it on the list. Daniel was better at noticing. Maya was better at making the list.

“Did you get lemons?” she asked.

He stopped. “I got limes.”

“The recipe says lemon.”

“They’re both optimistic citrus.”

She gave him a look, then made room at the cutting board. “Fine. Slice one.”

While Daniel chopped spinach, Maya added garlic to the pan. They talked about ordinary things: her delayed train, his manager scheduling another unnecessary meeting, the package left in the building lobby. Daniel mentioned that the bathroom sink was draining slowly again.

“I’ll text the landlord,” Maya said.

“You texted him last time.”

“And he actually answered me.”

“Eventually.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when the pan got too hot. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of wet pavement.

They ate at the small table beside the radiator, bowls balanced between unopened mail and Daniel’s laptop. The lime turned out to be fine. Afterward, Maya rinsed the dishes while Daniel packed the leftovers into mismatched containers.

“Lunch tomorrow?” he asked.

“Only if you take the one with the good lid.”

He snapped it shut. “That’s love.”

Maya smiled and handed him another bowl. “That’s because the other one leaks.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse was quiet except for the dishwasher’s hum and the traffic passing beyond the row of mailboxes.

Evan came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack.

“I got rice,” he said, lifting the sack. “And coffee. We were almost out.”

“We were completely out,” Maya said. “I used the last scoop this morning.”

He set the groceries on the counter, kissed her cheek, and opened the refrigerator. “What’s the plan?”

“Chicken, broccoli, rice. Nothing ambitious.”

“Perfect.”

While Maya trimmed the broccoli, Evan started the rice cooker and pulled the package of chicken from the bottom shelf. They moved around each other with the practiced courtesy of people who shared a small kitchen: a hand at the other’s back, a quiet “behind you,” a cabinet door closed before someone could bump into it.

Evan seasoned the chicken and put a skillet on the stove. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. Denise said we needed fresh ideas, then rejected every fresh idea.”

“Efficient.”

Maya laughed and slid the broccoli onto a sheet pan. “How was your day?”

“I fixed the billing report. Then I found out no one had looked at it since February.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when the skillet got too hot. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the back door, letting in cool evening air and the sound of a neighbor’s dog barking.

They ate at the small table by the window, with unopened mail pushed to one side. Maya reminded Evan that the electric bill was due Friday. Evan said he would pay it after dinner, then asked whether they still planned to visit her sister on Saturday.

“If we can leave before traffic,” she said.

They divided the leftovers into containers. Maya wiped the counters while Evan loaded the dishwasher, fitting the skillet in only after rearranging everything twice. When the kitchen was clean, they turned off the lights and carried their water glasses to the living room, where a basket of unfolded laundry waited beside the couch.


Maya heard the garage door rumble open while she was rinsing rice at the kitchen sink. A moment later, Daniel came in through the mudroom, set his backpack on the bench, and bent to untie his shoes.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Three meetings that could’ve been emails.” He hung his jacket beside hers. “What are we making?”

“Stir-fry. The broccoli needs to be used before it gives up.”

Daniel washed his hands and opened the refrigerator. Their grocery list was held to the door by a magnet from a state park they had visited last summer. He found a red pepper, half an onion, and a container of tofu.

“I thought we had mushrooms.”

“We did,” Maya said. “You put them in Sunday’s omelets.”

“Right.” He took out the cutting board. “I’ll handle vegetables.”

Maya measured water into the rice cooker, wiped a few stray grains from the counter, and pressed the button. Behind her, Daniel chopped the pepper while telling her about a coworker who had accidentally shared his entire screen during a presentation, including a chat complaining about the presentation.

She laughed. “Did anyone say anything?”

“Not while I was there.”

The dishwasher was clean but still full, so Maya unloaded it while the oil heated. Daniel slid the vegetables into the pan, and the kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and soy sauce. He opened a window a few inches when the smoke alarm gave one warning chirp.

“Your turn to deal with that battery,” Maya said.

“I changed it last time.”

“No, you stood on the chair. I changed it.”

They looked at each other, trying to remember, then both shrugged.

While the tofu browned, Maya set two bowls on the small table by the window. Daniel poured sparkling water and moved a stack of unopened mail to the counter.

“Should we watch something with dinner?” he asked.

“Only if we agree before the food gets cold.”

They settled on an old sitcom, carried their bowls to the couch, and left the pan soaking in the sink—an ordinary compromise for an ordinary Tuesday.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. The townhouse was quiet except for the washing machine thumping unevenly down the hall.

“Did you put the towels in with the sheets?” she called.

Evan came in carrying two grocery bags. “Maybe.”

“That’s why it sounds like it’s trying to escape.”

He set the bags on the counter and kissed her cheek. They had lived together for three years, long enough that neither mentioned the kiss or the fact that he had remembered to buy cilantro. He pulled out chicken thighs, a lime, and a container of salsa.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said.

Maya inspected the package. “These are fine.”

“You always say that, and then they tear.”

While she measured water for the rice, Evan heated a skillet and trimmed the chicken. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much trouble, though Maya had to nudge him aside to reach the salt. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from Milwaukee, the electric bill waited under a grocery list.

“Did you pay that?” Evan asked.

“Scheduled it for Friday.”

“Thank you.”

He seasoned the chicken. She chopped cilantro and found half an onion in a plastic container, still usable. They talked about his slow commute, her manager’s habit of scheduling meetings at four-thirty, and whether they should spend Saturday fixing the loose screen door or visiting his sister.

The smoke alarm chirped when the skillet got too hot. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the back door, laughing.

“Every time,” she said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s smoke.”

They ate at the small table by the window, adding salsa to tacos that did, in fact, split along the bottom. Afterward, Evan packed leftovers for lunch while Maya rinsed the plates and restarted the washing machine with the towels removed.

The house settled into its usual evening sounds: running water, silverware clinking, and the low murmur of the news from the living room.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, unopened mail leaned against a bowl containing two soft apples and a single lime.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and his laptop case.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said.

“Again?”

“I got parsley.”

Maya looked at him. “For tacos?”

“It’s green.”

She laughed and took the bag. Inside were tortillas, a carton of eggs, and the dish soap they had been forgetting to buy all week. Evan hung his jacket over a chair, then moved it to the hook after Maya glanced at it.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Maya sliced peppers while Evan browned ground turkey in the skillet. He opened the window when the smoke alarm gave one warning chirp.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Dana said ‘circle back’ four times.” Maya scraped the peppers into the pan. “How was traffic?”

“Somebody lost a mattress on the interstate.”

“Again?”

“Different mattress, probably.”

While the rice simmered, Evan fed their cat, who had been winding between their ankles with increasing urgency. Maya cleared a stack of coupons from the small dining table and found the electric bill underneath.

“We should set this to autopay,” she said.

“We said that last month.”

“We also said we’d clean the gutters.”

Evan tasted the filling and added salt. “Autopay feels more achievable.”

They ate at the table with the local news playing quietly in the living room. The tortillas were slightly stale, and the parsley tasted wrong, but the tacos were good enough. Maya told him about a coworker’s new puppy. Evan reminded her that the car needed an oil change Saturday.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers into containers while she loaded the dishwasher. When the counters were wiped and the lights turned off, they carried their water glasses upstairs, leaving the mail for tomorrow.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had stripped the sheets from the bed and started the first load of laundry. Marcus stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and comparing the grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he called.

“Three eggs,” Lena answered from the hallway. “That’s not a week’s worth.”

Marcus added eggs to the list. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that Saturday errands went better if they left before the stores became crowded.

While the washer ran, Lena wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced an empty roll of toilet paper. Marcus took the recycling to the bins behind their apartment building, then vacuumed the living room. At ten-thirty, they carried two baskets of clean clothes upstairs, left them unfolded on the bed, and drove to the supermarket.

The parking lot was already busy. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked items off on his phone. In produce, she chose tomatoes and rejected a bag of wilted spinach. He picked up apples, onions, and a bunch of bananas.

“Do we need rice?” Lena asked.

Marcus thought for a moment. “No, but we’re out of olive oil.”

They split up briefly. Lena went for yogurt and milk while Marcus found canned beans, pasta, and dish soap. They met near the frozen foods, where they debated buying a pizza before deciding it would be useful on a tired weeknight.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten coffee. Marcus hurried back while Lena unloaded the cart and arranged their coupons. The total was higher than they expected, so in the car they agreed to cook at home that evening instead of ordering takeout.

Back at the apartment, Marcus carried in the heavier bags while Lena cleared space in the pantry. They put everything away together, then folded the laundry while a baseball game played quietly on television.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. Lena made sandwiches, and Marcus opened the windows. They ate at the small kitchen table, pleased to have nothing else scheduled.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was kneeling beneath the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The cabinet floor was damp again.

“It’s the drainpipe,” he said, removing the flashlight. “I think I can tighten it, but we should get plumber’s tape.”

Lena added it to the list on her phone. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for almost two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop disagreeing about the best way to load the dishwasher.

While the towels spun, Marcus carried recycling to the bins behind the building. Lena stripped the bed and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. She texted him another addition to the list.

They drove first to the hardware store. Marcus found the tape and a new sink washer while Lena compared prices on furnace filters. Afterward, they crossed the parking lot to the supermarket.

Inside, Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked their shared grocery list. They bought eggs, coffee, chicken thighs, spinach, rice, and a bag of apples. Marcus suggested frozen pizza for dinner. Lena pointed out that they already had dough in the freezer.

“You said that dough was an experiment,” he reminded her.

“It can still become pizza.”

Near the checkout, they realized they had forgotten milk. Marcus jogged back while Lena unloaded the cart. He returned carrying milk and, without comment, the chocolate cookies she liked.

At home, Lena moved the towels to the dryer and remade the bed. Marcus replaced the washer beneath the sink and wrapped the pipe threads with tape. They ran the faucet together, watching for drips.

“Dry,” Lena said after a minute.

Marcus stood and rubbed his sore knee. “That deserves pizza.”

They put away the groceries, then rolled out the thawed dough side by side. The crust came out uneven and slightly burned at one edge, but they ate it at the kitchen table while the dryer hummed down the hall.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, trying to fit an empty cereal box into the recycling bin.

“You have to flatten it,” Lena called from the hallway.

“I was testing the bin’s limits,” he said, but he broke down the box anyway.

They lived together in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Neither of them had much planned for the weekend, but the list on the refrigerator had grown all week: groceries, detergent, lightbulbs, return library books.

Marcus gathered the books while Lena moved the towels to the dryer. Before leaving, they took turns carrying trash and recycling down to the building’s bins. Then Lena drove to the library, where Marcus dropped the books through the return slot and picked up a novel he had reserved.

At the grocery store, they divided the list. Lena chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus found coffee, pasta, and the laundry detergent they usually bought. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get yogurt?” Lena asked.

“It wasn’t on my side.”

“There are no sides.”

Marcus went back for it. Lena added a frozen pizza to the cart for dinner, and he picked out a bag of apples after rejecting several with bruises. At checkout, they used coupons from the store’s app and packed the bags themselves.

Back home, Marcus carried most of the groceries upstairs while Lena made a second trip for the detergent and a case of sparkling water. They put everything away together, pausing to wipe a sticky shelf in the refrigerator.

After lunch, Lena folded the towels on the couch. Marcus replaced the burned-out bulb above the stove, then vacuumed the living room while she cleaned the bathroom sink.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee. They sat at the kitchen table, tired but satisfied, and shared the last two cookies from a package they had decided not to replace.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Daniel had started a load of towels without checking the pockets, and one of Maya’s lip balms was knocking around inside.

“You owe me a new one,” she said, holding up the dented tube after they rescued it.

“I’ll add it to the list,” Daniel replied. He opened the notes app on his phone. “Lip balm, coffee, eggs, dish soap.”

“And actual food,” Maya said.

They spent the next hour dividing chores in their one-bedroom apartment outside Denver. Maya changed the sheets and wiped down the bathroom while Daniel vacuumed and took the recycling to the bins behind the building. When he returned, she was standing in the kitchen, trying to fit leftovers into mismatched containers.

“Lunch first?” he asked.

They ate reheated pasta at the counter, then drove to the grocery store. The parking lot was crowded, and Daniel circled twice before Maya spotted a car backing out near the garden center.

Inside, Maya pushed the cart while Daniel checked their list. They compared prices on chicken thighs, chose store-brand cereal, and debated whether they would really eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled.

“We said that last week,” Maya reminded him.

“And we almost did,” Daniel said, putting the smaller bag in the cart.

At the checkout, Maya noticed they had forgotten coffee. Daniel jogged back while she unloaded groceries onto the belt. He returned slightly out of breath with two bags, one regular and one decaf.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in three trips. Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya washed berries and divided the chicken into freezer bags. Afterward, they folded the towels together on the couch.

By late afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Maya checked the list and crossed off the last item.

“We forgot lightbulbs,” Daniel said.

She looked toward the dark lamp beside the couch.

“Tomorrow,” they said at the same time.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. She added it to the list taped to the refrigerator.

Marcus came in from taking the recycling downstairs, carrying an empty cardboard box under one arm. “We’re also out of coffee,” he said.

“We have coffee.”

“We have decaf.”

Lena sighed and wrote coffee beneath detergent. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for almost two years, long enough to know which shortages counted as emergencies to whom.

While the washer ran, Marcus wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb in the hallway. Lena sorted the mail, paid the electric bill online, and called the pharmacy to refill her allergy prescription. At eleven, they carried the towels to the coin-operated dryers in the basement, then drove to the shopping center.

Their first stop was the pharmacy. Marcus waited in line with Lena, scrolling through coupons on the grocery store’s app. After she collected her prescription, they crossed the parking lot to the supermarket.

Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked the list. They compared prices on detergent, rejected strawberries that looked soft, and debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach.

“We will if we buy mushrooms,” Marcus said.

“You said that last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

They bought both, along with eggs, rice, chicken thighs, yogurt, coffee, and a frozen pizza for dinner. At checkout, Lena noticed they had forgotten trash bags. Marcus jogged back while she unloaded the cart onto the belt.

Back home, they carried the groceries up in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items as Lena divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they returned to the basement for the dry towels.

By three, the errands were finished. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Lena folded towels on the couch while Marcus made two mugs, regular for him and tea for her. They put on a movie, though both of them knew they would probably fall asleep before it ended.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of laundry and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. Mark stood in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We need groceries,” he said.

“We need a list,” Lena replied, opening the refrigerator.

They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturday was usually when they caught up on everything they had ignored during the workweek. Mark took out the recycling while Lena changed the sheets. Then they switched tasks: she carried the laundry downstairs to the shared dryers, and he wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror.

By eleven, they had made a grocery list on Lena’s phone. Mark added coffee, eggs, and pasta. Lena added vegetables, detergent, and cat litter, though their cat, Milo, seemed more interested in the paper bag by the door.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Lena picked out produce while Mark compared prices on chicken. They met near the dairy case, where he held up two cartons of eggs.

“These are cheaper,” he said.

“Those are twelve. The others are eighteen.”

He checked again and put the smaller carton back.

At the checkout, they realized they had forgotten coffee. Mark jogged to the next aisle while Lena unloaded the cart. The total was higher than they expected, so she removed a package of cookies, but Mark quietly put them back on the belt and said he would skip ordering lunch at work next week.

Back home, they carried the bags up two flights of stairs. Lena put away the cold food while Mark cleaned out the refrigerator, throwing away an old container of rice neither of them remembered making.

By midafternoon, the laundry was folded, the groceries were stored, and Milo’s litter box was clean. They sat on the couch with coffee and opened the cookies.

“We still need to vacuum,” Lena said.

Mark looked at the crumbs on his shirt. “After one more cookie.”

She nodded. That seemed reasonable.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already stripped the bed and started a load of laundry. Daniel stood at the kitchen counter, comparing the grocery list to the contents of the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Maya replied, carrying the laundry basket down the hall. “That’s not having eggs.”

They had lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus for almost three years. Saturdays were usually their catch-up days: cleaning, errands, and whatever small repairs they had ignored during the week.

While the washing machine ran, Daniel took the recycling to the bins behind the building. Maya wiped down the bathroom and discovered they were nearly out of toilet paper. She added it to the list, along with detergent, onions, coffee, and cat food for their orange tabby, Lewis.

At the grocery store, they split up. Daniel went to produce while Maya headed toward the pharmacy aisle. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel had selected a bag of apples and a bunch of cilantro.

“Cilantro?” Maya asked.

“For tacos.”

“Then we need tortillas.”

They compared prices, chose the store-brand paper products, and decided against strawberries after seeing the cost. At checkout, Maya unloaded the cart while Daniel packed the reusable bags, putting the bread and eggs on top.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Daniel put away the groceries and started chopping vegetables for lunch. Maya moved the laundry to the dryer, then changed the sheets. When she returned to the kitchen, Daniel handed her a piece of bell pepper.

“Needs salt,” she said after tasting it.

“It isn’t cooked yet.”

“It’ll still need salt.”

After lunch, they folded clothes together on the couch while a baseball game played quietly on television. Lewis climbed into the warm laundry and had to be removed twice.

By midafternoon, the refrigerator was full, the apartment smelled faintly of cleaner, and the errands were finished. Maya made coffee, and Daniel opened the windows. They sat for a while without planning the rest of the day.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels, and Daniel was standing in the kitchen, holding two nearly empty cereal boxes.

“Do we need both of these?” he asked.

“We need neither of those,” Maya said, adding detergent to the shopping list on her phone. “You’re the only person who eats them, and you never finish them.”

Daniel combined the remaining cereal into one box and put it back in the cabinet. “Problem solved.”

They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturdays were usually reserved for whatever they had postponed during the week. While the towels washed, Daniel gathered recycling from the kitchen and bathroom. Maya wiped down the counters and checked the refrigerator for expired food. They debated whether a container of leftover rice was still good, then threw it away rather than risk it.

At eleven, they drove to the grocery store. Maya pushed the cart while Daniel read from the list. They compared prices on coffee, chose store-brand pasta, and spent several minutes looking for the specific cat litter their cat tolerated. In the produce section, Daniel picked out apples while Maya bagged green beans.

“You got avocados?” she asked.

“They’re hard as baseballs.”

“Get two. They’ll be ready by Wednesday.”

At the register, Daniel unloaded the cart and Maya watched the total climb higher than either expected. They split the bill through a payment app in the parking lot, then stopped at the pharmacy so Daniel could pick up a prescription.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Maya put away the refrigerated food while Daniel divided chicken into freezer bags. When the dryer buzzed, they folded the towels together on the couch, matching corners badly but efficiently.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of cleaner and coffee. Daniel took the recycling downstairs, and Maya made sandwiches. They ate at the small kitchen table, reviewing what remained: vacuuming, changing the sheets, and returning a package.

“Tomorrow?” Daniel suggested.

Maya looked around at the clean counters and stocked refrigerator.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter sorting the mail. They had lived together for two years, long enough to develop a loose system for weekends: one of them made a list, and the other remembered everything that never made it onto the list.

“We need detergent,” Marcus said, holding up the nearly empty bottle.

“And coffee,” Elena added from the hallway. “Real coffee, not the emergency instant stuff.”

While the washing machine ran, they stripped the bed and gathered recycling from around their apartment. Marcus carried the bags down to the bins behind the building. Elena wiped the bathroom sink and discovered they were almost out of toothpaste. She texted it to him before she forgot.

Around eleven, they drove to a supermarket across town, where produce was cheaper. Elena steered the cart while Marcus compared prices on pasta sauce. They debated whether they would actually cook the spinach before it wilted.

“We will,” Marcus said, putting a bag in the cart.

“You said that last time.”

“This is a new week.”

They bought eggs, rice, chicken thighs, apples, yogurt, detergent, toothpaste, and coffee. At the checkout, Elena noticed they had forgotten bread. Marcus jogged back while she unloaded the cart, returning with a loaf and a package of cookies that had not been discussed.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Elena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned fast-food receipts and an empty water bottle from the back seat.

Back at the apartment, they carried the groceries upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items, and Elena divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they moved the towels to the dryer and made the bed with clean sheets.

By early afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent and coffee. Elena sat at the table to review their shared budget. Marcus sliced apples and opened the cookies.

“We did buy spinach,” she reminded him.

“That’s for dinner,” he said, handing her a cookie.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We need groceries,” he said.

“We needed groceries three days ago,” Lena replied, adding detergent to their shared list.

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually for catching up on everything they had ignored during the week.

While the washer ran, Marcus gathered recycling from the kitchen and bathroom. Lena changed the sheets and found two missing socks under the bed. They carried the recycling downstairs together, then drove to the bank, where Lena deposited a check from a freelance project. Afterward, Marcus stopped at the hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement filter for the air conditioner.

At the grocery store, Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked their list. They compared prices on coffee, debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled, and chose the smaller one. Marcus picked out chicken thighs for dinner. Lena added rice, yogurt, apples, and a box of cookies that was not on the list.

“You said we were sticking to essentials,” Marcus said.

“Cookies are essential to morale.”

At checkout, they divided the bags by weight so neither had to carry all the heavy items upstairs. Back home, Marcus put away the groceries while Lena moved the towels to the dryer. He cleaned old leftovers from the refrigerator, and she wiped the shelves before arranging the new food.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent, and clean sheets covered the bed. Marcus made coffee while Lena opened the cookies. They sat at the small kitchen table, tired but satisfied, discussing whether to cook dinner or order pizza.

After everything they had accomplished, they agreed that pizza was reasonable.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started the laundry, and Marcus was kneeling beside the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The faucet had been dripping all week.

“You’re sure you turned off the water?” Elena called from the hallway.

Marcus removed the flashlight. “Almost sure.”

She appeared in the doorway holding a basket of towels. “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

Together they checked the valve, then watched a repair video on Elena’s phone. Marcus tightened the loose connection while Elena handed him tools and read the instructions. When he turned the water back on, the faucet stayed dry.

They celebrated with coffee, then made a grocery list at the kitchen table. Elena checked the refrigerator while Marcus opened cabinets and called out what they needed: eggs, rice, onions, coffee, dish soap. They disagreed briefly about whether they already had pasta, found three boxes, and crossed it off.

At the supermarket, Marcus pushed the cart while Elena compared prices. He chose tomatoes and spinach; she picked up chicken thighs and a bag of oranges. In the cereal aisle, Marcus reached for an expensive granola.

“That’s eight dollars,” Elena said.

“It has almonds.”

“We have almonds.”

He put it back and chose oatmeal. At checkout, Elena unloaded the cart while Marcus used the store app to find a coupon for the dish soap.

On the way home, they stopped at the post office so Elena could mail a birthday package to her sister. Marcus waited in the car and added gas-station coffee to their shared expense app.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Elena put away the produce while Marcus divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they switched the laundry and took out the recycling.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. The repaired faucet was quiet, the refrigerator was full, and clean towels tumbled in the dryer. Marcus made sandwiches while Elena cleared a space on the couch. They ate with their feet on the coffee table, discussing whether they had enough energy to vacuum.

They decided they did not.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already stripped the sheets from the bed and started a load of laundry. Marcus stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and studying the list they kept on the refrigerator.

“We need detergent,” he said.

“And groceries,” Lena called from the hallway. “Actual groceries, not just frozen pizza.”

Marcus added detergent to the list, then opened the refrigerator. A jar of mustard, two eggs, and half a carton of oat milk stared back at him. He wrote down eggs, milk, spinach, chicken, and coffee. Lena came in carrying the laundry basket and added bananas and toothpaste.

They divided the chores before leaving. Marcus vacuumed the living room while Lena cleaned the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror. Then they switched: Lena folded the dry towels, and Marcus moved the sheets into the dryer.

Around eleven, they drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and they had to circle twice before finding a space near the cart return. Inside, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked items off the list on her phone. They compared prices on coffee, chose the store brand, and debated whether they would really cook the bag of dried lentils Marcus picked up.

“You said that last time,” Lena reminded him.

“This week is different,” he said, putting them in the cart anyway.

At the checkout, Lena noticed they had forgotten dish soap. Marcus jogged back for it while she unloaded the groceries onto the belt. They split the bill through their shared expenses app before leaving the store.

On the way home, they stopped at the pharmacy for toothpaste and dropped a box of old clothes at a donation center. Back at the apartment, Marcus carried the bags upstairs while Lena returned the cart someone had abandoned beside their parking space.

They put everything away together. By early afternoon, the clean sheets were back on the bed, the refrigerator was full, and the apartment smelled faintly of detergent. Lena heated leftover soup for lunch while Marcus washed the produce. Their Saturday was only half over, but the necessary part was done.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Ben had started a load of towels without noticing that one had wrapped itself around the others.

“It sounds like it’s trying to escape,” Maya said.

Ben paused the machine and redistributed the towels while Maya opened the blinds. They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Ben handled laundry; Maya usually made the grocery list. Neither of them was especially strict about it.

After coffee and scrambled eggs, they checked the refrigerator. Maya wrote down milk, spinach, tortillas, and yogurt while Ben inspected the pantry and added rice, coffee filters, and canned tomatoes. They debated whether they needed more hot sauce, then discovered two unopened bottles behind the cereal.

Before leaving, they carried recycling to the bins behind the building. Ben broke down a cardboard box while Maya gathered several cans that had rolled loose in the trunk of her car. Their next stop was the pharmacy, where Ben picked up allergy medicine and Maya bought toothpaste.

The grocery store was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Ben pushed the cart and compared prices on coffee. Maya chose apples, rejecting two with bruises, and found chicken thighs on sale. When Ben suggested frozen pizza, she reminded him they already had leftovers.

“That’s lunch,” he said. “Pizza is emergency planning.”

They bought one anyway.

Back home, Maya put away the refrigerated food while Ben carried up the second load of bags. He realized they had forgotten dish soap, but Maya found a nearly full bottle under the sink. They folded the clean towels together on the couch, matching corners badly and laughing when one came out shaped like a lopsided triangle.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. Ben heated the leftovers, and Maya updated their shared shopping list on her phone. Outside, someone was mowing the apartment lawn. Inside, they ate lunch and discussed whether doing nothing for the rest of the day counted as a plan.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing at the kitchen counter, comparing their grocery list with the nearly empty refrigerator.

“We need eggs,” he said.

“They’re already on the list,” Lena called from the hallway. She returned carrying a basket of towels. “And coffee. The good kind, not the giant plastic tub.”

Marcus added a question mark beside coffee and smiled.

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually when they caught up on everything they had ignored during the workweek. While the washer ran, Marcus took the recycling down to the bins behind the building. Lena changed the sheets and gathered the library books they needed to return.

Before leaving, they stopped at the post office to mail a birthday card to Marcus’s mother. Then Lena drove to the library, where Marcus returned the books through the outside slot. Their final stop was the supermarket.

Inside, they divided the list. Lena picked out vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus found cereal, pasta, and the coffee she liked. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get eggs?” Lena asked.

Marcus looked into the cart and sighed. “I talked about eggs for ten minutes.”

He went back for them while she chose yogurt. At the checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap, so Lena hurried to the cleaning aisle as Marcus unloaded the cart.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries and portioned the chicken for the freezer. Lena moved the towels into the dryer, then wiped out the refrigerator drawer where a carton of strawberries had leaked.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. They made grilled cheese sandwiches and opened a can of tomato soup. The clean sheets were still piled on the couch, waiting to be folded.

“We should do those,” Marcus said.

Lena turned on the television. “After lunch.”

He handed her a bowl of soup. “Definitely after lunch.”

Neither of them moved the sheets.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had stripped the sheets from the bed and started the first load of laundry. Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, comparing their grocery list with the nearly empty refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he called.

“Two eggs,” Lena said, carrying the laundry basket down the hall. “And one of them looks suspicious.”

They divided the chores. While the washer ran, Marcus took the recycling to the bins behind their apartment building and vacuumed the living room. Lena cleaned the bathroom and gathered the mail that had accumulated beside the front door. They opened the utility bill together, frowned at the amount, and agreed to turn the thermostat down at night.

Around noon, they drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and Marcus waited for a family to unload their cart before pulling into a space. Inside, Lena steered while he checked items off the list on his phone.

They debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach before it went bad. Lena put it in the cart anyway. Marcus chose pasta, canned tomatoes, and ground turkey for dinner. They also bought coffee, oatmeal, apples, dish soap, and a box of cookies that had not been on the list.

At the register, Lena noticed a digital coupon had not applied. She asked the cashier about it while Marcus began bagging the groceries. The cashier fixed the price, saving them three dollars.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items while Lena washed the apples and cleared old leftovers from the refrigerator. Then they moved the laundry to the dryer and folded the first warm load on the couch.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent. Marcus made coffee, and Lena opened the cookies. They sat at the small kitchen table, tired but satisfied, discussing whether to take a walk before starting dinner.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a chair in the hallway, replacing the smoke detector battery that had chirped twice during the night.

“Test it before you get down,” Lena called from the laundry closet.

Marcus pressed the button. The alarm shrieked, and Lena covered her ears. “Working,” he said.

They had been living together for two years in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Their refrigerator held half a carton of eggs, mustard, and a container of rice neither of them remembered making. At the kitchen table, they wrote a grocery list. Lena checked the pantry while Marcus added items to the store app, comparing prices and deleting the cookies he had added when she wasn’t looking.

They left just before eleven. First, they stopped at the post office so Lena could mail a birthday package to her sister. Marcus waited in line while she found tape at a side counter. Then they drove to a hardware store for lightbulbs and a rubber washer for the dripping bathroom faucet.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Lena picked out vegetables and searched for the yogurt they usually bought. Marcus went to the meat counter, then returned with chicken thighs and a discounted bag of coffee.

“This wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“It’s two dollars cheaper than ours.”

She examined the label and put it in the cart. “Fine. But no mystery cookies.”

They used the self-checkout, where Marcus scanned while Lena bagged, keeping the bread away from the cans. Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Lena put away the groceries, and Marcus replaced the faucet washer after watching a short video on his phone.

By midafternoon, the towels were folded, the leak had stopped, and a pot of soup simmered on the stove. They sat at the table with coffee, reviewing the week’s bills. Nothing about the day had been exciting, but the apartment felt cleaner, stocked, and ready for another week.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a chair in the hallway, replacing the smoke detector battery that had chirped twice during the night.

“Test it before you get down,” Elena called from the laundry closet.

Marcus pressed the button. The alarm shrieked, and Elena covered her ears.

“Works,” he said.

They made a list at the kitchen counter. Elena checked the refrigerator while Marcus opened cabinets and called out what they were missing: coffee, rice, dish soap, onions. She added yogurt and tomatoes, then reminded him they needed quarters for the apartment building’s larger dryer.

Their first stop was the bank, where Marcus used the change machine in the lobby. Afterward, Elena drove to the grocery store while he compared gas prices on his phone. The parking lot was crowded, so she dropped him near the entrance to get a cart, then found a space at the far end.

Inside, they divided the list. Elena picked produce and checked the strawberries for mold. Marcus found coffee and cereal, then texted her a picture of two brands of dish soap. She replied, “Whichever is cheaper per ounce.”

They met near the dairy case. Marcus had added tortilla chips to the cart. Elena raised an eyebrow but put in a jar of salsa.

At checkout, the total was higher than they expected. Together they reviewed the receipt and discovered the yogurt discount had not been applied. Marcus went to customer service while Elena loaded the bags into the car.

Back home, they carried everything up two flights. Marcus put away the groceries while Elena moved the towels to the dryer. Then they took out the recycling, wiped down the kitchen counters, and changed the sheets.

By midafternoon, they were tired and hungry. Elena sliced tomatoes for sandwiches while Marcus opened the chips.

“We forgot toothpaste,” he said.

Elena looked at the list on the counter.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and he agreed.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a kitchen chair, replacing the dead bulb above the sink. They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide chores without discussing every detail, but not long enough to stop disagreeing about how many reusable bags they owned.

“There are six in the trunk,” Marcus said.

“There are two in the trunk. The rest are probably under your desk.”

They found four under his desk, along with a missing phone charger and a library book due Monday. Lena added the library to their list while Marcus moved the towels to the dryer.

Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to her sister in Oregon. Marcus waited at the counter beside her, filling out a change-of-address form for a piece of mail that kept going to their old apartment. Afterward, they drove to the library and returned the overdue book through the slot.

At the grocery store, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked the list on her phone. They bought eggs, rice, coffee, spinach, chicken thighs, and the yogurt Lena liked. Marcus compared prices on laundry detergent and chose the store brand. Lena picked up tomatoes, rejected two, and found better ones near the back of the display.

“Do we need onions?” Marcus asked.

“We always need onions.”

They added onions, then debated whether frozen pizza counted as planning ahead. Two went into the cart.

Back home, Marcus carried the heavier bags upstairs while Lena brought the detergent and a sack of potatoes. They put everything away together. She washed the spinach; he divided the chicken into freezer bags and labeled them with the date.

By early afternoon, the towels were folded, the refrigerator was full, and the new bulb made the kitchen look brighter than either of them expected. Lena made coffee, and Marcus opened the mail. For a few quiet minutes, they sat at the table, satisfied that nothing urgent remained.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was kneeling beside the kitchen sink, trying to tighten the loose faucet handle. They rented a small apartment in Ohio, and although the landlord would have sent someone eventually, Marcus insisted the repair would take five minutes.

It took twenty.

While he worked, Lena made a list on the back of an envelope: milk, rice, onions, coffee, dish soap. Marcus added cereal and crossed out the expensive brand Lena had written down.

“You don’t even eat cereal,” she said.

“I do when it’s not the kind with twigs in it.”

They carried the recycling to the bins behind the building, then drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and Lena waited for a minivan to back out while Marcus checked the digital coupons on his phone.

Inside, they divided the list. Lena picked through tomatoes and compared prices on chicken thighs. Marcus found the coffee, dish soap, and a box of cereal with a cartoon tiger on it. When they met near the frozen foods, he had also added ice cream.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“Neither were the cookies in your basket.”

At the checkout, they bagged the groceries together. Marcus put the eggs and bread in one bag; Lena rearranged the cans so nothing was too heavy. The total was higher than they expected, so they agreed to cook at home instead of ordering pizza that evening.

Back at the apartment, Marcus carried most of the bags upstairs while Lena brought the laundry from the basement. They put everything away, wiped out the refrigerator, and threw away a jar of salsa neither remembered buying.

By early afternoon, the faucet no longer wobbled, the towels were folded, and a pot of rice was simmering on the stove. Lena chopped onions while Marcus seasoned the chicken. Their errands had taken longer than planned, but the apartment felt orderly again, and the rest of Saturday was still theirs.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter sorting mail into three piles: bills, recycling, and things they had ignored all week.

“Internet bill went up again,” he said.

Elena poured the last of the coffee into two travel mugs. “Add ‘call provider’ to the list.”

Their list already included groceries, cat litter, lightbulbs, and returning a package. They lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and weekends often became a negotiation between chores and rest.

Marcus carried the laundry basket upstairs while Elena rinsed breakfast dishes and checked the refrigerator. The spinach had wilted, and one yogurt had expired. She added both to the grocery list, then called up the stairs to ask whether they still had rice.

“Enough for one meal,” Marcus answered after checking the pantry.

They left around eleven. At the shipping store, Elena returned a pair of shoes that pinched her toes while Marcus bought stamps. Next, they stopped at a hardware store, where he compared LED bulbs and she found a replacement filter for the furnace.

The supermarket was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Elena pushed the cart while Marcus read from the list on his phone. They debated whether they would actually cook broccoli before it went bad, then bought it anyway. Marcus chose ingredients for chili; Elena picked up sandwich bread, apples, eggs, and coffee. At the register, they split the total using their shared household account.

Back home, Marcus changed the furnace filter and started the chili. Elena folded the dry towels, put away groceries, and cleaned the refrigerator shelf where the spinach had leaked.

By midafternoon, the chores were mostly finished. They sat on the couch with bowls of chili, the cat wedged between them.

“We forgot the litter,” Elena said.

Marcus sighed and reached for his shoes. “I’ll go.”

“I’m coming,” she said. “We can get ice cream too.”


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels while Daniel stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the refrigerator’s contents.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Maya replied, carrying the empty laundry basket down the hall. “That’s not having eggs.”

Daniel added them to the list. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know that errands went faster when they divided the decisions. Maya checked the bathroom cabinet for toothpaste and detergent. Daniel gathered the recycling and took it to the bins behind their apartment building.

Before leaving, they stopped at the post office to mail a birthday gift to Daniel’s sister in Ohio. Maya waited in line while Daniel filled out the address label, then she caught his mistake before they reached the counter.

“She lives on Walnut Street now.”

“Good thing one of us pays attention,” he said, crossing out the old address.

At the supermarket, they pushed the cart together until the aisles grew crowded. Then Daniel handled produce and meat while Maya collected cereal, canned tomatoes, and cleaning supplies. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get coffee?” she asked.

He looked at the cart. “I thought you were getting coffee.”

They doubled back, laughing because this happened almost every week.

At checkout, Maya noticed the total climbing and quietly removed a bag of fancy granola. Daniel replaced it with the store brand. They loaded the groceries into their hatchback, returned the cart, and drove home with the windows cracked open to the mild afternoon.

Back at the apartment, Daniel put away the cold items while Maya moved the towels to the dryer. They ate sandwiches standing at the counter, then worked side by side: he vacuumed the living room, and she wiped down the bathroom.

By three, the errands were finished. Maya folded the warm towels while Daniel made coffee. They sat on the couch, tired but satisfied, and agreed not to do anything useful for the rest of the day.


By nine on Saturday morning, Nina had stripped the sheets from the bed and carried them to the laundry room in their apartment building. Her boyfriend, Marcus, followed with the hamper balanced against his chest.

“You forgot the detergent,” she said.

He looked down at the clothes as if detergent might be hidden among them. “I’ll get it.”

While the machines ran, they went upstairs and made a list of everything they needed to do. Marcus called the electric company about a billing error, pacing near the window as he waited on hold. Nina wiped down the kitchen counters and sorted the mail into three piles: bills, recycling, and things they would probably ignore for another week.

At eleven, they transferred the laundry to the dryers, then drove to the grocery store. The parking lot was crowded, and Marcus waited behind a minivan while Nina spotted an empty cart near the entrance and waved him toward it.

Inside, they divided the list. Nina picked out vegetables and compared prices on coffee. Marcus went to the deli counter and found the brand of rice they both liked. They met near the dairy case, where he placed a carton of eggs in the cart.

“We already have eggs,” Nina said.

“Two.”

“That’s still eggs.”

He returned the carton and added yogurt instead.

At checkout, Nina unloaded the cart while Marcus bagged the groceries, keeping the bread away from the canned tomatoes. Back home, they carried everything up in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items and started a pot of soup for lunch. Nina folded the dry clothes at the table, matching socks and setting aside one shirt with a loose button.

After they ate, they changed the sheets together. Marcus pulled one corner tight while Nina tucked in the other. By midafternoon, the errands were done. They sat on the couch with coffee, the dishwasher humming in the kitchen, and agreed not to do anything useful for the rest of the day.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, reading expiration dates.

“The yogurt is definitely done,” he said.

Lena came in carrying a basket of towels. “Add it to the list. And check whether we have coffee.”

They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturdays had become their day for catching up on everything they ignored during the week. While the washing machine ran in the basement, Marcus wiped down the bathroom and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror. Lena sorted mail at the kitchen table, paying the electric bill and setting aside a coupon for dish soap.

At eleven, they drove to the grocery store. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus read from the list on his phone. They compared prices on pasta sauce, chose chicken thighs over breasts because they were cheaper, and debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled.

“We will if we make omelets tomorrow,” Lena said.

“You’ll make omelets,” Marcus replied.

“You’ll chop the vegetables.”

He put the spinach in the cart.

At the checkout, Marcus bagged the groceries while Lena watched the total climb higher than they expected. In the parking lot, they loaded everything into the trunk, then stopped at the pharmacy next door for Lena’s allergy medicine and a hardware store for picture hooks.

Back home, Marcus carried the heavy bags upstairs. Lena put away the cold food and noticed they had forgotten onions. Neither wanted to go out again, so Marcus suggested using the last two shallots in the pantry for dinner.

They switched the laundry to the dryer, hung a framed print above the couch, and vacuumed the bits of plaster that fell onto the carpet. By midafternoon, the apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh coffee.

Lena sat beside Marcus on the couch and looked at the slightly crooked picture.

“We should fix that,” she said.

Marcus leaned back. “Next Saturday.”

She considered it, then nodded. “Fine.”


By nine on Saturday morning, the laundry basket had become impossible to ignore. Maya carried it down the narrow stairs of the duplex while Ben followed with a bottle of detergent and the loose sock they had found under the couch.

“You think it belongs to either of us?” he asked, holding up the tiny blue sock.

“Upstairs neighbors,” Maya said. “Unless your feet have changed dramatically.”

They started two loads in the basement, then returned to the kitchen and made a list. Ben checked the refrigerator while Maya opened cabinets.

“Eggs, milk, rice,” he called.

“Coffee,” she added. “And something green.”

At the grocery store, they split up. Maya went to produce, comparing prices on spinach and broccoli, while Ben found coffee and cereal. They met beside the dairy case, where he had placed an expensive wedge of cheese in the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“It’s for dinner.”

“What dinner?”

“The dinner I’m apparently cooking now.”

She smiled and added pasta to the cart. At checkout, they used a coupon from the store’s app, then carried the bags to their car through a light drizzle.

On the way home, they stopped at the hardware store for a replacement air filter and felt pads for the dining chairs. Ben chose the filter while Maya tested three nearly identical shades of white paint for a scuff near the front door. They agreed to postpone the paint.

Back at the duplex, Maya put away groceries as Ben moved the laundry to the dryers. Later, they folded clothes together on the living-room floor. Ben paired socks; Maya hung shirts over the backs of chairs.

By early afternoon, the refrigerator was full, the chairs no longer scraped, and the clean laundry sat in uneven stacks. The mysterious blue sock remained on the table.

Maya carried it upstairs and left it outside the neighbors’ door. When she returned, Ben was boiling water for pasta.

“Productive day,” he said.

“It’s only two.”

He looked toward the remaining basket of towels. “Then we should probably stop before we ruin Saturday.”


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, trying to decide whether a jar of salsa counted as breakfast.

“We need eggs,” Elena called from the hallway. “And detergent. We’re almost out.”

Marcus closed the refrigerator and added both to the grocery list on his phone. They had lived together for two years in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and their Saturdays had settled into a practical rhythm. Elena gathered towels from the bathroom while Marcus stripped the sheets from their bed. When the washing machine began thumping during the spin cycle, they worked together to shift it away from the wall.

Before leaving, Marcus carried a bag of recycling to the bins behind the building. Elena checked the mail and found an electric bill, a coupon flyer, and a birthday card for the previous tenant.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Elena went to produce for onions, spinach, and apples while Marcus picked up milk, eggs, and coffee. They met near the meat counter, where they debated whether to buy chicken breasts or the cheaper thighs.

“Thighs,” Elena decided. “We can roast them with potatoes.”

Marcus added a bag of rice to the cart because it was on sale. Elena reminded him they already had two bags at home, so he put it back. At the checkout, he loaded groceries onto the belt while she opened the store app to scan their coupons.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Elena filled the tank, and Marcus went inside to buy windshield-washer fluid. Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips.

Marcus put away the groceries while Elena moved the sheets into the dryer. Then they made sandwiches and sat at the kitchen table, comparing the receipt with their budget.

They had spent six dollars more than planned, mostly because of coffee. Marcus promised to make the bag last. Elena laughed, knowing it probably wouldn’t, and went to fold the towels while he washed the lunch dishes.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had already started a load of towels, while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator.

“We have three kinds of mustard and no milk,” he said.

Elena carried the empty laundry basket into the room. “That sounds like something we’d do.”

They had lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Denver for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Marcus cleaned the bathroom while Elena changed the sheets. Then they switched tasks: she scrubbed the stove, and he took the recycling and a bag of donated clothes down to the car.

Before leaving, they sat at the table and planned meals for the week. Elena suggested vegetable soup, tacos, and pasta. Marcus added ingredients for sandwiches and reminded her that his sister was coming over Tuesday.

At the grocery store, they split up. Elena went to produce, choosing onions, carrots, spinach, and apples. Marcus found bread, milk, coffee, and canned tomatoes. They met near the meat counter, where they compared prices and decided chicken thighs were cheaper than breasts.

“Did you get rice?” Elena asked.

Marcus looked at the cart. “I thought you were getting rice.”

Neither had, so he went back while she searched for laundry detergent. At checkout, Elena used a store coupon on the coffee, and Marcus packed the groceries into reusable bags. The total was higher than they expected, even after they put back a box of cookies.

On the way home, they stopped at the gas station and the library. Elena returned two novels, and Marcus picked up a reserved book about home repairs, though they both knew their landlord handled anything serious.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries while Elena moved the towels to the dryer. By early afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. They made sandwiches, sat on the couch, and agreed to leave the vacuuming until Sunday.


Saturday began with the smoke detector chirping at seven in the morning.

Maya pulled a pillow over her head while Ben stood on a kitchen chair, twisting the detector from its bracket. They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for nearly two years, but neither could remember where they kept the spare batteries.

“Junk drawer,” Maya called.

“There are three junk drawers.”

She joined him in the kitchen, still wearing flannel pajama pants, and searched until she found a nine-volt battery beneath takeout menus and loose rubber bands. After Ben replaced it, they made coffee and wrote a list of errands on the back of an envelope.

Their first stop was the laundromat. The apartment building had machines in the basement, but one had been leaking for a week. Maya loaded their clothes while Ben fed quarters into two washers. During the cycle, they walked next door to the hardware store for lightbulbs and a new shower curtain liner.

At noon, they drove to the supermarket. Maya pushed the cart, comparing prices on canned tomatoes, while Ben checked their shared list on his phone. They debated whether they would actually eat a bag of spinach before it spoiled.

“We will if we make pasta tonight,” Ben said.

“You said that last time.”

He put the smaller bag in the cart. Maya added onions, yogurt, chicken thighs, and the coffee they both liked. Ben chose cereal and remembered dish soap just before checkout.

Back at the laundromat, they folded warm towels on a plastic table. One of Ben’s socks was missing, so Maya checked the dryer twice before finding it stuck inside a fitted sheet.

At home, they carried the groceries up three flights. Ben put away the food while Maya changed the shower curtain liner. Then they worked together to vacuum the living room and wipe down the kitchen counters.

By four, the apartment smelled faintly of cleaner and coffee. They sat on the couch with their shoes off, tired but satisfied.

“Pasta tonight?” Ben asked.

Maya looked toward the refrigerator. “Only if you wash the spinach.”


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already stripped the sheets from the bed and started a load of laundry. Marcus stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and comparing the grocery list on the refrigerator with the coupons in his phone.

“We’re out of detergent,” Lena called from the hallway.

Marcus added it to the list. “And trash bags. The last one is in the can.”

They had lived together for two years in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually their day for catching up on everything they had ignored during the workweek.

While the washing machine ran, Marcus took the recycling down to the bins behind the building. Lena wiped the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror. Then they gathered their reusable bags and drove to the supermarket.

At the store, they split the list. Lena chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus picked up cereal, coffee, and canned tomatoes. They met near the dairy section, where Marcus placed an expensive wedge of cheese in the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“It’s for tonight,” he replied. “We can make grilled cheese with the tomato soup.”

She considered this, then added a loaf of sourdough. “All right, but we’re skipping the cookies.”

At checkout, Lena unloaded the cart while Marcus bagged the groceries. The total was a little higher than they had planned, so they checked the receipt in the parking lot before driving home.

Back at the apartment, Marcus put away the pantry items and divided the chicken into freezer bags. Lena washed the produce and moved the laundry into the dryer. Afterward, they carried an old lamp and two boxes of clothes to a nearby donation center.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. They folded the clean sheets together, each taking two corners. Marcus fitted the bottom sheet while Lena smoothed the top one.

“Not a very exciting Saturday,” he said.

Lena looked around the cleaner apartment. “No, but Monday will be easier.”

They made coffee and sat on the couch, leaving the remaining chores for Sunday.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the coffee grinder. In the kitchen, Daniel stood barefoot on the cool tile, measuring grounds into the machine.

“We’re out of filters,” he said.

Maya opened the cabinet and found one crumpled filter behind the sugar. “Then this is our last chance.”

They drank coffee at the small table and made a list. Their apartment needed toilet paper, dish soap, lightbulbs, and groceries for the week. Daniel checked the refrigerator while Maya looked through the pantry. They debated whether the half-empty jar of salsa was still good, then threw it away after noticing the date.

Before leaving, they carried two baskets of laundry downstairs. Maya loaded the machines while Daniel walked around the corner to the hardware store. He returned with lightbulbs and a new rubber seal for the dripping kitchen faucet. By then, the clothes were ready for the dryers.

At the supermarket, they split the list. Maya chose vegetables, yogurt, and chicken, comparing prices as she went. Daniel picked up rice, canned beans, coffee filters, and the household supplies. They met near the bakery, where he added a loaf of sourdough to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither were those cookies.”

She looked at the package in her hand. “Fair.”

The checkout line was long, so they discussed dinners for the week and decided to make soup on Sunday. Daniel paid while Maya packed the reusable bags, keeping the eggs and bread on top.

Back home, they put everything away together. Maya folded the dry laundry on the couch while Daniel replaced the faucet seal. When he turned the water back on, the drip had stopped.

They ate late sandwiches made with the new bread and sat by the open window. Outside, someone was mowing a lawn, and a delivery truck blocked half the street. Maya glanced at the remaining list.

“We still need gas,” she said.

Daniel leaned back. “Tomorrow.”

She crossed it out anyway.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had started a load of towels, and Ben was kneeling under the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The cabinet floor was damp again.

“It’s the drain connection,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I think I can fix it if we get plumber’s tape.”

Maya added it to the list on her phone. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that a quick grocery trip could easily become four errands.

While the towels washed, Ben broke down the week’s cardboard boxes for recycling. Maya wiped out the refrigerator and found a container of rice neither of them could remember making. They debated it for a moment, then threw it away.

Their first stop was the hardware store. Ben found the tape and a replacement washer while Maya picked up lightbulbs for the hallway fixture. Next they drove to the bank’s ATM and then to the pharmacy, where Maya collected a prescription and Ben bought toothpaste.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Maya headed for produce while Ben compared prices on coffee. They met near the dairy case, where he placed an expensive wedge of cheese in the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither were the cookies,” he replied, pointing to the package under the spinach.

They kept both.

At checkout, Maya used a coupon on laundry detergent, and Ben bagged the groceries, putting the eggs and bread together so they would not be crushed. Back at their apartment, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Maya put away the cold items while Ben returned to the sink.

The new washer stopped the leak. He ran the faucet and watched the pipe for a full minute before declaring victory.

Maya moved the towels to the dryer and made sandwiches. They ate at the small kitchen table with the window open, listening to someone mow a lawn nearby.

After lunch, there were still sheets to change and floors to vacuum, but neither of them moved right away. Ben opened the cookies, and Maya made fresh coffee. The rest could wait ten minutes.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels, while Ben stood at the kitchen counter comparing their grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Maya replied, carrying the empty laundry basket down the hall. “That’s not having eggs.”

Ben added them to the list. They had lived together for three years, long enough to develop a system for weekend errands, though not always the same opinion about what counted as urgent. Maya wanted to stop at the hardware store for a new shower curtain liner. Ben wanted to return a library book before the drop box closed.

They left their apartment just after ten. Ben drove, and Maya organized the route on her phone. At the library, he hurried inside while she answered a text from her sister. Then they crossed the shopping center to the hardware store, where Maya found the liner and Ben picked up lightbulbs they had forgotten they needed.

The grocery store was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Maya pushed the cart while Ben read from the list. They chose chicken thighs for dinner, rice, spinach, coffee, yogurt, and a bag of apples. Ben suggested frozen pizza for an easy meal during the week. Maya added one, then quietly put a second in the cart.

At the checkout, they split the bags by weight, Ben taking the heavier ones. Back home, Maya put away the cold food while he carried the laundry to the building’s basement dryers. When he returned, she was cleaning a sticky spot on the refrigerator shelf.

“You missed one thing,” she said, holding up the list.

Ben looked at it. “Dish soap.”

They considered going back, then agreed it could wait. He replaced the shower curtain liner while Maya started rice for lunch. By early afternoon, the towels were dry, the groceries were put away, and the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and toasted sesame oil. They ate at the small kitchen table, satisfied that they had done enough for one Saturday.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a chair in the hallway, replacing the smoke detector battery that had chirped twice during the night.

“Test it before you get down,” Elena called from the laundry closet.

Marcus pressed the button. The alarm shrieked, and Elena covered her ears.

“I regret asking,” she said.

They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to split chores without discussing every one. Elena cleaned the bathroom while Marcus gathered recycling and carried it to the bins behind the building. Then they sat at the kitchen table with coffee and made a grocery list.

“We’re out of rice,” Marcus said.

“And dish soap. Not the lemon kind this time.”

At the supermarket, Elena pushed the cart while Marcus compared prices on chicken thighs. They debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled and settled on the smaller one. Marcus chose pasta and canned tomatoes for dinner; Elena added yogurt, apples, coffee, and a frozen pizza for a busy night.

Near the checkout, Marcus remembered they needed cat litter. He jogged back while Elena unloaded the cart onto the belt. When he returned, carrying the heavy box against his chest, she had already entered their loyalty number and found a coupon for the coffee.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items while Elena divided the chicken into freezer bags. Their cat, June, inspected every empty paper bag as if it had been brought home for her.

After lunch, they folded the towels together on the couch. Elena matched socks while Marcus updated the shared list on his phone: groceries, laundry, recycling, smoke detector.

“Productive,” he said.

Elena looked at the clean kitchen and the pile of folded towels. “Almost.”

She pointed toward the vacuum. Marcus sighed, then stood up. Elena moved the chairs out of his way, and June disappeared under the bed as soon as the motor started.