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 still held the stale warmth of the afternoon, so she nudged the window above the sink open with one hand.

Ethan came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the grocery store.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the sack on the counter.

“The ones you like or the ones I like?”

“The ones we both pretend are healthy.”

Maya smiled. “Tragic.”

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough that dinner followed a loose division of labor neither remembered agreeing to. Maya usually chopped vegetables. Ethan handled anything involving a skillet, though he often left every cabinet door open while he cooked.

Tonight they were making chicken tacos. Ethan washed his hands, then took the cutting board from beside her and began slicing the chicken. Maya shook the broccoli dry and frowned.

“Wait, why did I get broccoli?”

“You said we needed a vegetable.”

“For tacos?”

He glanced at it. “Roast it. Put lime on it. It’ll be fine.”

While the oven heated, Maya sorted the mail at the small dining table: an electric bill, a coupon flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Ethan’s college friends. She held it up.

“Another one.”

Ethan looked over from the stove. “Put it on the fridge. We’ll check the calendar.”

She attached it with a magnet shaped like Ohio. Neither of them said anything else about it.

The smoke alarm chirped when oil splattered in the pan. Maya waved a dish towel beneath it while Ethan turned on the vent.

“Very professional,” she said.

“Restaurant quality.”

They ate at the table with salsa jars between them and their phones facedown near the napkins. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Ethan asked about her meeting; Maya asked whether his car was still making that noise.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers while she loaded the dishwasher, stepping around each other in the narrow kitchen without needing to say excuse me.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a packet of rice for the second time. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her laptop bag leaned against a stack of unopened mail.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and the water bottle he had forgotten that morning.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said.

“What did you get?”

He held up a bunch of asparagus.

“That works.”

They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much planning. Maya filled a saucepan while Evan snapped the ends off the asparagus over the trash. He told her about a meeting that should have been an email. She told him the upstairs neighbor had texted again about a package delivered to their door by mistake.

“Did you bring it inside?” he asked.

“It’s by the coat rack.”

The chicken breasts were still slightly frozen in the middle, so Evan put them in the microwave on defrost. Maya opened the mail, separating a utility bill from coupons and a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. When the microwave beeped, the cat appeared from the hallway and sat expectantly between them.

“Not for you,” Evan said.

He seasoned the chicken while Maya started the rice. They bumped elbows reaching for the olive oil, and she moved aside to pour two glasses of water. A local news program played quietly from the living room, mostly weather and traffic.

Twenty minutes later, they carried their plates to the small table near the window. Evan went back for hot sauce. Maya noticed a damp dish towel on the counter but decided to leave it until after dinner.

“Do we have anything tomorrow night?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Leftovers, then.”

He nodded and cut into the chicken. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher clicked off, and they ate while discussing whether they needed cat litter, toothpaste, or both.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. Outside, the last buses sighed along the wet street. Their townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee Marcus had left in the pot that morning.

“Did you buy cilantro?” she asked.

Marcus, still wearing his office badge, opened the refrigerator and stared into it as if the answer might appear. “I bought parsley.”

Lena looked over. “For tacos?”

“They were next to each other.”

She laughed and handed him a cutting board. “Fine. Parsley tacos. Start on the peppers.”

They had lived together for fourteen months, long enough that the kitchen reflected both of them: her labeled spice jars beside his collection of hot sauces, his cast-iron skillet on the stove, her chipped blue mug in the dish rack. A grocery list was held to the fridge by a magnet from a roadside attraction they had visited the previous summer. At the bottom, Marcus had added lightbulbs three times.

He sliced the peppers while Lena browned ground turkey. They talked over the hiss of the skillet—her delayed project, his coworker who heated fish in the break-room microwave, whether the electric bill seemed unusually high.

“Did you turn the thermostat up?” Marcus asked.

“One degree.”

“That’s how it starts.”

“You slept in socks last night.”

“That was unrelated.”

Lena nudged him aside with her hip to reach the cumin. He warmed tortillas in a dry pan, burning the first one while checking a basketball score on his phone. Without comment, he ate the ruined tortilla over the sink.

When dinner was ready, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. Marcus went back for napkins; Lena brought the salsa and two cans of seltzer. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement shiny under the streetlights.

“These are good,” he said after the first bite.

“Even with parsley?”

He considered. “The parsley has learned from its mistakes.”

Lena smiled and reached across the table to wipe a streak of salsa from his wrist. Behind them, the rice cooker clicked to warm, and neither of them remembered the lightbulbs.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Rain tapped against the window over the sink. Her boyfriend, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and the mail.

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

“That’s fine. Did you remember lemons?”

He lifted one from the bag.

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much discussion. Maya filled a saucepan with water while Daniel trimmed the beans over the cutting board. Their cat, Olive, circled his ankles, convinced every grocery bag contained something for her.

“There’s a letter from the landlord,” Daniel said.

Maya looked over. “Bad letter?”

“Probably just the lease renewal.”

“Still bad, then.”

He laughed and slid the beans into a skillet. Maya seasoned two chicken breasts, then washed her hands and moved a stack of unopened mail away from the stove. The kitchen was small, and clutter migrated quickly: keys beside the toaster, a travel mug near the fruit bowl, Daniel’s lunch container drying upside down on a towel.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes longer than it needed to be. How was traffic?”

“Same accident near the exit.”

They talked in fragments while they cooked. Maya complained about a coworker who kept saying “circle back.” Daniel told her the vending machine at work had charged him twice. When the smoke alarm chirped because the skillet was too hot, he waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

They ate at the small table by the living room, with Olive watching from the windowsill. The beans were a little undercooked, and Daniel had used too much lemon, but neither mentioned it.

“Want to watch that detective show?” Maya asked.

“After we clean up.”

She gathered the plates. He reached for the leftovers and found a container with a matching lid on the first try, which felt like the evening’s only genuine accomplishment.


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 red pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the container of cooked rice.

“It was behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“You looked emotionally behind the milk.”

Daniel moved the carton and found the rice. “I stand corrected.”

They had rented the small duplex in Columbus for almost two years, long enough for the kitchen to collect their habits: her grocery list held to the freezer with a magnet from the county fair, his favorite skillet permanently occupying the front burner, their mail gathering in a crooked stack beside the fruit bowl.

Maya tipped the peppers into the skillet. They hissed beside the onions. Daniel broke the cold rice apart with a wooden spoon, then opened the dishwasher and frowned.

“Clean or dirty?”

“Clean. I ran it this morning.”

He unloaded just enough to find two bowls. “How was the meeting?”

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet everyone had already approved.” She added garlic and lowered the heat. “How was the site visit?”

“Cold. The contractor forgot the keys, so we stood in the parking lot pretending it was productive.”

Their cat, Lewis, appeared at the sound of a can opening, though it was only corn. Daniel nudged him away with one socked foot and added the rice to the pan. Maya poured soy sauce around the edge, where it darkened and steamed.

“Did you call the landlord?” she asked.

“About the bathroom fan? Left a message.”

“Heroic.”

“I also brought in the recycling.”

She glanced toward the back door and saw the empty bin. “Actually heroic.”

They ate at the small table under the light that flickered whenever the furnace started. Daniel offered her the last of the hot sauce. Maya took it, then slid half her avocado onto his bowl.

Outside, a neighbor dragged trash cans to the curb. Inside, Lewis settled beneath their chairs, hopeful and patient, while they discussed whether they had enough detergent to avoid stopping at the store tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Lena was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink when Marcus came through the back door, carrying a canvas grocery bag and the day’s mail. They had lived together in the small Ohio bungalow for almost three years, long enough that he knew to leave his muddy shoes on the mat and she knew he would forget to sort the envelopes unless reminded.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, coupon for gutters, something addressed to the previous owner.” He set the mail beside the fruit bowl. “I got broccoli. They were out of green beans.”

“Broccoli’s better anyway.”

Marcus loosened his tie and peered into the skillet, where chicken thighs were browning. Lena handed him a cutting board without looking up. He washed the broccoli, trimmed the dry ends, and divided the crown into uneven florets.

“Those are enormous,” she said.

“They shrink.”

“Not that much.”

He cut them again while she measured water into the rice cooker. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from a vacation in Michigan, a note reminded them to schedule the furnace inspection. Marcus tapped it with the knife handle.

“I’ll call tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll call before lunch.”

The dog, Pepper, wandered in and sat hopefully between them. Marcus slipped her a bit of broccoli stem. She chewed it, then dropped it on the floor.

“Even she thinks your vegetables are too big,” Lena said.

While the chicken finished in the oven, they cleared the drying rack together. Marcus put away plates; Lena matched lids to plastic containers. They talked about a meeting that had run long at his office and a parent who had arrived late to Lena’s after-school program. Neither story required much explanation. They had heard versions of both before.

At seven, they carried their plates to the scarred wooden table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Marcus reached for the hot sauce, and Lena nudged the electric bill toward him.

“After dinner,” he said.

She smiled. “Before television.”

“Deal.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. They had both changed out of work clothes—Maya into an old college sweatshirt, Daniel into flannel pants with a frayed drawstring.

“How was the meeting?” he asked, shaking water from the rice.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed a decision, and then nobody made one.” She slid the pepper strips into a bowl. “How was traffic?”

“Construction on Elm again.”

Daniel poured the rice into a saucepan, added water, and set it on the back burner. They moved around each other without thinking much about it. After three years in the small Ohio rental, they knew which cabinet doors stuck and which floorboard squeaked near the refrigerator.

Maya opened the fridge. “Did you use the last lime?”

“I thought there were two.”

“There were two yesterday.”

Daniel checked the crisper as if a lime might appear for him. “I made guacamole at lunch.”

“You work from home one day and suddenly you’re running a restaurant.”

He smiled and handed her a bottle of vinegar. “Improvisation.”

They were making chicken bowls, the kind of dinner that used whatever was left: rice, black beans, peppers, half an onion, and a container of salsa from the weekend. Daniel cooked the chicken while Maya warmed the beans and cleared unopened mail from the little table. She set aside the electric bill and dropped a grocery flyer into recycling.

“Your sister texted,” Daniel said over the hiss of the skillet. “She wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

“Are we?”

“If you want. I can fix that loose cabinet hinge for your mom.”

Maya nodded. “She’ll feed us.”

“She’ll feed us too much.”

When everything was ready, they carried their bowls to the table. Daniel returned for hot sauce, and Maya nudged his water glass away from the stack of mail.

Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher hummed from the night before, and they ate while deciding whose turn it was to empty it.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying to read a message from her manager.

The front door opened, followed by the familiar scrape of Daniel’s shoes on the mat.

“Please tell me we have food,” he called.

“We have ingredients,” Maya said. “Food is still under negotiation.”

Daniel appeared in the kitchen, loosened his tie, and kissed her cheek. He looked into the skillet, where sliced peppers and onions waited beside a package of chicken.

“What’s the plan?”

“Fajita bowls. Unless you want to order pizza and pretend these vegetables never existed.”

He opened the refrigerator. “No, we should use them. The pepper is starting to wrinkle.”

“They’re all starting to wrinkle. It’s been a long week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

Daniel laughed and washed his hands. While Maya seasoned the chicken, he chopped cilantro and found the can opener in the wrong drawer. They talked about their days in pieces: her delayed meeting, his coworker’s broken coffee mug, the construction that had narrowed the road near their building. When the rice began to boil over, Daniel lowered the heat and wiped the stove with the dish towel.

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

“Scheduled it this morning.”

“Rent?”

“Friday, after I get paid.”

She nodded, relieved. They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to know each other’s routines but not long enough for them to feel invisible.

Daniel set two bowls on the small table beside unopened mail and a basket of clean laundry. Maya divided the rice and chicken while he added salsa and cilantro.

They ate with the evening news murmuring from the living room. Halfway through dinner, Daniel pointed toward the laundry.

“We folding that tonight?”

Maya considered it. “Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.”

Afterward, they carried their dishes to the sink together.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her, still full from the cycle they had run that morning. She made a mental note to empty it, then decided tomorrow was soon enough.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery bag and his laptop case. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter.

“The flour ones?”

“The flour ones you like. I got corn.”

Maya looked over. “That’s fine. We’re adaptable.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much planning. Tonight was tacos made from leftover chicken, vegetables that needed using, and whatever toppings were still good. Evan put the chicken in a skillet while Maya chopped half an onion and the last slightly soft bell pepper.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Forty-five minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“Extremely.”

He smiled and reached around her for the cumin. Their kitchen was narrow, and they had learned a kind of choreography: one person opened the refrigerator while the other stepped toward the sink; cabinet doors were closed quickly to prevent collisions.

As the chicken warmed, Maya cleared unopened mail from the small dining table. She separated a utility bill from two advertisements and placed the bill beside Evan’s keys.

“Did you call the landlord about the dripping faucet?” she asked.

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

“I’ll be home in the afternoon.”

Evan warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Maya set out salsa, shredded cheese, and a lime that yielded only a few drops. They carried their plates to the table, where one chair held a basket of clean laundry.

“I’ll fold that after dinner,” Evan said.

“We’ll fold it,” Maya corrected.

Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked twice and stopped. Evan took a bite and nodded toward the skillet.

“This is better than takeout.”

Maya tasted hers. “It’s cheaper than takeout.”

“That too.”

They ate while discussing weekend errands, the faucet repair, and whether the broccoli had been worth saving. It had, mostly.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a metal colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her phone played the local news quietly between advertisements.

Marcus came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag down. “So I got the ones that crack if you look at them wrong.”

“We can warm them first.” Lena glanced at the envelopes in his hand. “Anything important?”

“Electric bill, dentist reminder, and three opportunities to refinance a house we don’t own.”

They had rented the small two-bedroom place outside Columbus for nearly three years. The second bedroom served as Marcus’s office and storage for everything they had not decided where to put.

He washed his hands, then opened the refrigerator. “Chicken still okay?”

“I checked. It’s fine, but we should cook all of it.”

Marcus took out the package and began slicing it while Lena spread the broccoli on a sheet pan with oil, salt, and pepper. They moved around each other without much thought. She opened the spice cabinet as he stepped aside; he caught the oven door before it bumped her knee.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty-five minutes to decide we need another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

She smiled. “How was traffic?”

“Someone lost a mattress on 270.”

While the chicken browned, Marcus sorted the mail at the table, dropping the junk into recycling. Lena wiped the counter and filled two glasses with water. A damp dish towel hung crookedly from the oven handle, and the trash needed taking out, but neither mentioned it.

They ate at the small table by the window, assembling tacos with chicken, bagged slaw, and salsa. The tortillas held together after all.

“Do you want the last one?” Marcus asked.

“We can split it.”

He tore it unevenly and gave her the larger half. Outside, a neighbor pulled a trash bin to the curb. Lena looked up.

“Is tomorrow Thursday?”

Marcus sighed. “I’ll take ours out after dinner.”


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and laundry detergent. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, still wearing her office badge, slicing bell peppers while a pot of rice clicked softly on the stove.

Evan came in from walking the dog, shaking rain from his jacket. “Scout refused to go past the mailbox,” he said, unclipping the leash.

“Smart dog.”

“He also tried to eat a napkin.”

“Less smart.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much planning. Maya pushed the cutting board toward him. “Can you finish these? I need to change.”

Evan washed his hands and took over. While Maya traded her work clothes for sweatpants, he heated oil in their dented skillet and checked the chicken they had thawed that morning. Scout settled beside the refrigerator, watching with patient optimism.

Maya returned carrying a basket of clean towels. “The dryer’s making that noise again.”

“The squeak?”

“The clunk.”

“That’s new.”

She folded towels at the small dining table while Evan added the peppers. They talked about ordinary things: her supervisor moving a deadline, the traffic on his commute, whether they could wait until Saturday to buy groceries. When the smoke alarm chirped once, Maya waved a dish towel beneath it.

“You’re burning dinner,” she said.

“I’m developing flavor.”

She laughed and opened the window.

They ate from mismatched bowls at the table, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. The rice was slightly undercooked, but the chicken was good. Evan gave Scout a small piece after Maya pretended not to notice.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Evan loaded the dishwasher. He paused over a plastic container with no matching lid.

“Throw it out,” she said.

“We’ll find the lid tomorrow.”

“You said that last month.”

He placed it back in the cabinet anyway. Maya rolled her eyes, then leaned against him as he wiped the counter. Outside, rain tapped the window. Inside, the dishwasher started its familiar hum, and the evening moved quietly on.


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 dishwasher hummed beside her. Through the open window above the sink came the sound of a lawn mower somewhere down the block.

“Did you already feed him?” she called.

Evan came in carrying their cat, Leonard, under one arm. “He says no.”

“Leonard always says no.”

Evan checked the dish by the refrigerator. “You fed him.”

“At five-thirty. He’s running a scam.”

Leonard wriggled free and trotted toward the pantry anyway.

They had planned tacos, but the avocados were hard and the tortillas had gone stale. Evan opened the refrigerator and surveyed the shelves: half a rotisserie chicken, broccoli, a jar of pasta sauce, and several containers neither of them wanted to investigate.

“Stir-fry?” he suggested.

“With pasta sauce?”

“I wasn’t proposing a single dish.”

Maya laughed and set the rice cooker going. Evan pulled the chicken from the bones while she cut the broccoli and the last red pepper. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought, trading the good knife and opening drawers with their hips.

“How was the meeting?” Evan asked.

“Long. Denise said ‘circle back’ six times.” Maya slid the vegetables into a hot pan. “How was the dentist?”

“One cavity. Apparently flossing twice the week before an appointment doesn’t fool anyone.”

“I could’ve told you that.”

“You have told me that.”

While the vegetables cooked, Evan took the recycling out to the bin. Maya wiped a smear of sauce from the counter and sorted the mail: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation addressed to both of them.

When he returned, she held it up. “Your cousin.”

“June?”

“September.”

He nodded, then tasted the broccoli. “Needs salt.”

“It has salt.”

“It needs more.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, knees occasionally bumping underneath. Leonard sat between them, watching the chicken. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Evan loaded the dishwasher, leaving the pan to soak because neither of them felt like scrubbing it.


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. Rain tapped against the window above the sink. Her boyfriend, Daniel, came in through the back door carrying the mail under his jacket.

“Anything good?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the people who lived here three years ago.”

He dropped the mail beside the fruit bowl, then washed his hands. They had rented the small duplex outside Columbus for almost a year, long enough to know which cabinet stuck in humid weather and which burner took twice as long to heat.

Maya poured rice into a saucepan. “Can you cut the peppers? I’m going to start the chicken.”

Daniel opened the refrigerator and moved a carton of eggs, two seltzer cans, and a jar of pickles before finding the peppers. “We’re almost out of soy sauce.”

“There’s another bottle behind the cereal.”

“Why is soy sauce behind the cereal?”

“Because you put it there after we cleaned the pantry.”

He considered this, then nodded. “That does sound like me.”

While Maya browned the chicken, Daniel sliced the peppers and an onion. They talked about ordinary things: a meeting that could have been an email, the neighbor’s recycling bin rolling into the street, whether they needed to schedule the car’s oil change. Daniel fed a pepper strip to the dog, who had been waiting hopefully near his feet.

“Don’t fill her up,” Maya said.

“It’s one pepper.”

“That’s what you said about the cheese yesterday.”

When dinner was ready, they carried their bowls to the little table by the window. Daniel went back for forks, and Maya turned off the kitchen light they always forgot.

The rain had softened. Across the room, the dryer buzzed.

“I’ll fold if you switch it,” Daniel said.

Maya took a bite and smiled. “Deal.”


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 searched the refrigerator for the jar of salsa he was sure they had bought on Sunday.

“It’s behind the milk,” Maya said.

“It is not.”

She leaned over, moved the carton, and revealed the jar.

Daniel nodded. “I was testing you.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. The kitchen was narrow, with aging cabinets and one drawer that stuck whenever the weather turned damp. Daniel bumped it shut with his hip, then set a skillet on the stove.

Their weekday dinners were rarely planned beyond a vague agreement made by text. That afternoon, Maya had sent, “Tacos?” during a slow moment at the dental office. Daniel, finishing reports at the insurance company, had replied with three thumbs-up emojis.

Now he browned ground turkey while Maya chopped lettuce and grated cheese. The dishwasher hummed beside them. On the counter, a stack of mail waited to be sorted: a utility bill, a grocery circular, and an envelope addressed to the previous tenant.

“How was your meeting?” Maya asked.

“Long. Craig said ‘circle back’ four times.”

“Only four?”

“I counted.”

She laughed and handed him the cumin. He shook some into the pan, then added too much and frowned.

“It’ll be fine,” she said. “We have sour cream.”

Their cat, Pickle, appeared at the kitchen doorway and complained as if no one had fed him in days. Daniel checked the clock.

“He ate at five.”

“He has no memory of that,” Maya said.

They carried their plates to the small dining table, clearing aside Daniel’s laptop and Maya’s unopened package of socks. Outside, a neighbor dragged a trash bin to the curb. A bus sighed at the corner.

Daniel took a bite and said, “Too much cumin.”

Maya added salsa and shook her head. “Not enough, actually.”

They ate anyway, talking about laundry, weekend errands, and whether the bathroom faucet had started dripping again. Nothing important happened, but by the time the plates were empty, the house felt settled around them.


Maya dropped her keys into the blue bowl by the door and called, “I’m home,” though she could already hear Daniel in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets.

“In here,” he answered. “We’re out of rice.”

They had lived together for three years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and dinner often began this way: with one of them discovering that the grocery list had failed them.

Maya hung her jacket on the crowded coat rack and entered the kitchen. Daniel stood at the counter in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, staring at two chicken breasts and a bag of spinach.

“We have pasta,” she said, checking the pantry.

“Had pasta. I ate it for lunch.”

“All of it?”

“There wasn’t much.”

She gave him a tired look, but he was already smiling. He handed her the cutting board as a peace offering.

They settled on chicken sandwiches and roasted potatoes. Daniel scrubbed the potatoes while Maya sliced them, pushing the scraps toward the compost container under the sink. The dishwasher hummed from the cycle they had forgotten to run the night before. On the refrigerator, a utility bill waited beneath a magnet from their trip to Chicago.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we should schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“Very.”

He seasoned the chicken, too heavily, and Maya brushed off some of the pepper. They talked about the neighbor’s barking dog, whether the bathroom faucet was getting worse, and whose turn it was to buy coffee. When the smoke alarm chirped at the first burst of oven heat, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

Twenty minutes later, they ate at the small table by the living room, their plates mismatched and the television low in the background. Daniel reached for her hand briefly before picking up his sandwich.

“Not bad for no rice,” he said.

Maya nodded. “Put it on the list.”

He did, using the pen tied to the refrigerator with string, before either of them could forget.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counter that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying not to drip rainwater from her sleeves. Outside, buses sighed at the curb, and tires hissed along the wet street.

Evan came in carrying a grocery bag and a stack of mail tucked under his arm. He set everything on the small kitchen table beside Maya’s laptop.

“You got cilantro?” she asked.

He looked into the bag. “I got parsley.”

Maya turned from the stove. “Why?”

“They were next to each other.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

He smiled and began unloading groceries: two limes, a can of black beans, tortillas, and the wrong herb. Maya shook her head, but she was smiling too.

While she lowered the heat under the rice, Evan rinsed the beans and poured them into a saucepan. He loosened his tie, draped it over a chair, and opened the mail with one finger.

“Electric bill,” he said. “Dentist reminder for you. Coupon for a place that cleans air ducts.”

“We don’t have air ducts.”

“Then we’re already saving money.”

Maya handed him a wooden spoon. “Stir.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced adjustments. Evan stepped aside so she could reach the spice drawer; Maya closed the refrigerator with her hip while he chopped the parsley, deciding they might as well use it. The dishwasher hummed, still full from the night before.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. How was traffic?”

“Long.”

They agreed this was enough discussion of work.

Evan warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Maya tasted the beans, added salt, and set out two mismatched plates. When dinner was ready, they carried everything to the table, first moving the laptop, mail, and a basket of unfolded laundry onto the couch.

“Tomorrow,” Maya said, looking at the laundry.

“Definitely tomorrow,” Evan said.

Neither of them believed it, but they sat down to eat.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon dish soap Maya had used that morning. She stood at the kitchen counter in her socks, slicing bell peppers while the local news murmured from the living room.

Evan came in carrying the mail under one arm and his laptop bag over the other. He nudged the door shut with his heel.

“Anything important?” Maya asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the previous tenant.” He set the envelopes beside the fruit bowl. “Need help?”

“Rice, please. And can you check whether the chicken’s thawed?”

Evan washed his hands, then opened the refrigerator. The chicken was still cold in the middle, so he put it on a plate and used the microwave’s defrost setting. While it turned, he measured rice into the small saucepan they had bought when they first moved in together. Its handle was loose again.

“We should replace this,” he said, wiggling it.

“You said that last month.”

“I was hoping the pan would fix itself.”

Maya laughed and slid the peppers into a skillet. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed to schedule another meeting.” He poured water over the rice. “How was your day?”

“My manager changed the deadline, then acted surprised that I wasn’t done.”

They traded tired looks. Evan seasoned the chicken while Maya stirred the vegetables. Their cat, Pickles, appeared at the sound of the refrigerator opening and sat hopefully between them.

“You already ate,” Evan told him.

When the chicken was cooked, Maya cut into the thickest piece to check it. Evan set out two mismatched plates and filled their water glasses. They ate at the small dining table, moving a stack of unopened magazines to the empty chair.

Halfway through dinner, Maya remembered the laundry in the washer.

“I’ll switch it after we eat,” Evan said.

“I’ll fold it.”

“Deal.”

Outside, traffic moved steadily along the wet street. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, Pickles waited for scraps, and they discussed whether they had enough energy to watch one episode of something before bed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and into an old college sweatshirt. She stood at the kitchen counter in socks, slicing a red pepper while the evening news murmured from the living room.

Eli came in through the back door carrying the mail and a canvas grocery bag. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting everything beside the sink. “So I got the ones that always tear.”

“We’ll call it taco salad when they fall apart.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They had lived together in the small Ohio duplex for almost two years, long enough to develop an unspoken division of labor. Maya chopped vegetables; Eli handled anything involving a hot pan. He put ground turkey on the stove while she rinsed lettuce in the colander. Their dog, Penny, stationed herself between them, hopeful but inconvenient.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

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

“Under the bathroom sink?”

“No, the glamorous new one by the water heater.”

Maya sighed and nudged Penny aside with her foot. “Maybe we should buy a house.”

“With what money?”

“The money we’ll save by eating broken tortillas.”

Eli laughed. He added seasoning to the pan, and the sharp smell of cumin filled the kitchen. Maya opened the refrigerator and found half a lime wrapped in plastic, still usable. She squeezed it over the lettuce, then cleared two unopened electric bills from the table.

They assembled dinner at the counter: meat, peppers, shredded cheese, salsa, and the fragile tortillas. Eli carried the plates to the table while Maya filled two glasses with water and gave Penny her kibble.

Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the alley. A train horn sounded beyond the neighborhood.

Eli’s first taco split immediately, dropping filling onto his plate.

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Salad?”

He picked up a fork. “Exactly as planned.”

They ate beneath the buzzing kitchen light, comparing their workdays and deciding to leave the dishes until after one episode of television.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying not to drip sauce from the wooden spoon onto her blouse.

Evan came in carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. He set both on the small kitchen table, kissed her cheek, and said, “They were out of broccoli, so I got green beans.”

“That’s fine. Did you get soy sauce?”

He froze, one hand still inside the bag.

Maya looked at him. “You forgot.”

“I forgot.” He pulled out green beans, two apples, and a carton of eggs as if the soy sauce might be hiding underneath. “I can go back.”

“No, there’s probably enough left.” She opened the refrigerator door and moved a jar of pickles, a takeout container, and half a gallon of milk before finding the bottle tipped on its side. “Barely.”

Evan loosened his tie and began snapping the ends off the beans over the sink. He told her about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late because his manager kept repeating the same point. Maya described the printer jam that had stalled her entire office before lunch.

“Did you fix it?” he asked.

“I watched a video and pretended I knew what I was doing.”

“Management material.”

She laughed and handed him the skillet. He heated oil while she sliced garlic. They bumped elbows in the narrow space, apologized automatically, and kept moving. The smoke detector chirped once when the skillet got too hot, so Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side: chicken, rice, and green beans slightly blackened around the edges. Evan sorted bills from advertisements between bites.

“Trash goes out tonight,” Maya reminded him.

“I know.”

“You said that last Tuesday.”

He nodded toward the empty soy sauce bottle. “I’ll take both down.”

After dinner, she packed leftovers for lunch while he rinsed the plates. Outside, someone rolled a garbage bin across the parking lot. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, and they argued mildly about what to watch before bed.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper. A moment later, Daniel came in through the laundry room, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Not terrible. The left lane was closed again.” He loosened his tie and looked into the skillet. “Fajitas?”

“That was the plan, but I forgot sour cream.”

“We have yogurt.”

Maya gave him a doubtful look. “You always say that like they’re the same thing.”

“They’re close enough on a Tuesday.”

Daniel changed into sweatpants while Maya finished the vegetables. When he returned, he fed the cat, who had been winding impatiently around their ankles, then took a package of tortillas from the refrigerator.

“These expired yesterday,” he said.

“They’re fine.”

He opened the bag and inspected one. “No visible civilization.”

“Put them in foil.”

Their small rental house still held traces of the morning: two coffee mugs beside the sink, a blanket folded crookedly on the couch, unopened mail near the fruit bowl. Daniel cleared the counter while Maya added chicken to the skillet. The exhaust fan rattled overhead.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Priya presented my idea like it was hers.”

“Did you say anything?”

“Not yet.” Maya stirred the chicken. “I’m deciding whether I’m annoyed enough to make it awkward.”

“You are.”

“I probably am.”

Daniel laughed and set out plates. He mixed yogurt with lime juice and salt, then offered Maya the spoon. She tasted it.

“Acceptable,” she said.

“High praise.”

They carried everything to the table and sat across from each other beneath the light fixture Daniel kept promising to replace. Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Maya reached for a tortilla while Daniel opened the utility bill.

“After dinner,” she warned.

He folded it shut. “After dinner.”

The cat jumped onto the empty chair between them, and they ate.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Ben leaned into the refrigerator, moving jars around as if the missing soy sauce might appear behind the milk.

“Door shelf,” Maya said.

“I checked.”

“You checked the top half of the door shelf.”

Ben straightened, looked lower, and found it beside the mustard. “I was testing you.”

They had both come home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Ben from the county planning office. Their shoes were still by the front door, his tipped over and hers lined neatly against the wall. A basket of unfolded laundry sat on the couch, waiting for a more ambitious evening.

Ben started rice in the small cooker they had bought when they moved into the duplex two years earlier. Maya slid peppers and onions into a hot skillet, and he opened a package of chicken, pausing to read the date.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“I know. I’m being responsible.”

“You’re holding it like evidence.”

He laughed and cut the chicken into uneven pieces. They talked about nothing urgent: a parent who had missed Maya’s meeting, a confusing email from Ben’s supervisor, whether the landlord had actually scheduled someone to fix the dripping bathroom faucet. When the smoke alarm chirped, Ben waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya turned down the burner.

They ate at the small table near the kitchen, with the mail pushed to one side. The rice was slightly undercooked, and the stir-fry needed more salt, but neither mentioned it until Ben reached for the soy sauce.

“Good thing I found this,” he said.

Maya nudged his foot under the table. After dinner, she packed leftovers into two containers for lunch while he filled the sink with soapy water. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the faucet kept dripping, and they argued mildly over whose turn it was to fold the laundry.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the laundry detergent from the load turning in the hall closet. Maya stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking at the door.”

“The top shelf. Behind the mustard.”

He found it and held it up like a prize. “You could organize crime scenes.”

They had both come home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Daniel from a day of video meetings at the small desk in their bedroom. His laptop was still open beside a mug with cold coffee in it. Her shoes lay by the front door, one tipped onto its side.

Daniel put rice in the cooker and rinsed it twice, though Maya reminded him it should be three times. She slid the peppers into the skillet with the onions, and the oil hissed.

“How was the parent meeting?” he asked.

“Better than I expected. Nobody cried.”

“Kids or adults?”

“Adults.”

He laughed and began cutting chicken on the plastic board they reserved for meat. They talked about the electric bill, which had gone up again, and whether they should renew their lease in August. Neither subject was settled. The conversation drifted to his sister’s birthday and the package they had forgotten to mail.

When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel under it while Maya opened the window above the sink. Cold March air came in, carrying traffic noise and the smell of rain.

They ate at the small table beside the living room, knees occasionally bumping underneath. The stir-fry was a little too salty, but the rice was good. Daniel offered to wash the pans if Maya moved the laundry to the dryer.

“Deal,” she said, stacking their bowls.

In the kitchen, water ran over the plates. Down the hall, the dryer started its steady hum. Their evening settled around those sounds, ordinary and shared.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work shirt and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, slicing a red bell pepper. The dishwasher hummed beside him, still full from the cycle he had started that morning. Their cat, Juniper, sat near the refrigerator, watching each piece fall onto the cutting board.

Elena came in through the garage carrying her laptop bag and a paper sack of groceries.

“Did we already have cilantro?” she asked.

“Probably,” Marcus said. “But it’s probably soup by now.”

She opened the crisper drawer and found a limp bunch pressed beneath a bag of carrots. “You were right.”

They had lived in the rented townhouse for nearly two years, long enough to stop discussing whose dishes were whose, but not long enough to replace the folding chairs at the small dining table. Elena put the new cilantro in a glass of water while Marcus tipped the peppers and onions into a hot skillet.

“Rice?” he asked.

“I can do it.”

She rinsed a cup in the mesh strainer, then paused to check a message from her sister. Marcus nudged the trash can toward her with his foot so she could throw away the grocery receipt.

They talked over the sizzle: a meeting Marcus thought could have been an email, the construction detour near Elena’s office, whether the landlord had ever replied about the loose bathroom faucet.

“He said he’d send someone Friday,” Marcus said.

“This Friday?”

“He didn’t specify.”

Elena laughed and measured the water. While the rice simmered, she warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Marcus added black beans to the skillet and tasted the mixture.

“Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

They ate at the folding chairs with salsa between them and Juniper circling their ankles. Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Marcus loaded the dishwasher, discovered it was still clean, and sighed.

“I forgot to empty it.”

“I noticed,” she said, handing him a plate.

Together, they put everything away.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, sleeves rolled to her elbows, stirring rice while the evening news murmured from a speaker on the windowsill.

Evan came in carrying the mail and a paper grocery bag.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said, setting both on the small kitchen table. “I got green beans instead.”

“That’s fine. Did you remember the yogurt?”

He paused with one hand inside the bag. “Yes.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m proud of myself.”

Maya smiled and turned down the burner. They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner required little planning but still produced the same minor negotiations. Evan rinsed the green beans and snapped off the ends while she cut chicken into strips. Their cat, Lenny, appeared from the hallway and sat directly between them.

“He already ate,” Maya said.

“He says that was hours ago.”

“It was forty minutes ago.”

Evan nudged the cat aside with his sock. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. Denise used the phrase ‘circle back’ six times.” Maya tipped the chicken into a hot skillet. “How was your day?”

“The printer jammed, and apparently I’m the only person in the office who can open a tray.”

They ate at the table beneath the unopened mail, passing the soy sauce back and forth. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner, and someone upstairs dragged a chair across the floor.

After dinner, Evan packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Maya washed the skillet while he wiped the table and checked the mail: an electric bill, a coupon flyer, and a wedding invitation from his cousin.

He held it up. “October in Ohio.”

“We’ll need a hotel,” she said.

“And probably nicer shoes.”

Maya handed him a towel. “Put it on the fridge. We’ll figure it out Saturday.”

He did, securing it with a magnet from their local pizza place. Then they finished the dishes together.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and laundry detergent. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly in the closet down the hall.

“Did you leave something in your jeans again?” she called.

Evan looked up from the stove, where he was stirring rice. “Probably a receipt.”

“That machine sounds like it’s washing a brick.”

He lowered the heat, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and went to investigate. Maya heard the closet door open, then the washer pause. A moment later, he returned holding two quarters and a small hex key.

“I don’t know where this came from,” he said.

“The junk drawer, originally.”

Their cat, Nelson, sat beside the refrigerator, staring at the cutting board with patient intensity. Maya dropped the pepper strips into a bowl and nudged him away with her foot.

“How was your meeting?” Evan asked.

“Forty minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“And yours?”

“My boss used the phrase ‘circle back’ five times.”

They had planned tacos, but the tortillas in the refrigerator were spotted with mold. Evan held up the package, and they both frowned at it.

“Rice bowls?” he suggested.

“Rice bowls,” Maya agreed.

He opened a can of black beans while she seasoned the peppers and onions. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought—Maya stepping aside so Evan could reach the cumin, Evan moving the cat’s water dish before she tripped over it.

When the vegetables began to sizzle, Maya opened the window a crack. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner and someone rolled a trash bin down the alley.

They ate at the small table near the living room, bowls topped with salsa, shredded cheese, and the last half of an avocado.

“We need groceries,” Maya said.

Evan nodded. “And detergent.”

“And tortillas.”

He glanced toward the laundry closet, where the washer had resumed its steady rhythm. “And apparently a better system for emptying my pockets.”

Maya smiled and passed him the hot sauce.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying to read a text from her sister.

The front door opened, followed by the scrape of Daniel’s shoes on the mat.

“Hey,” he called.

“In here. Can you check the chicken? I can’t remember when I put it in.”

Daniel set his backpack beside the coat rack and came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. He opened the oven and leaned back from the heat.

“It looks done.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

“Right.” He found the meat thermometer in the crowded utensil drawer, beneath two spatulas and a packet of takeout chopsticks. “One sixty-eight.”

“Then it’s definitely done.”

He took the pan out while Maya turned down the rice. Their cat, Olive, appeared from the hallway and sat hopefully between them.

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“This morning. Dinner is your department.”

Olive meowed as if confirming the arrangement.

Daniel filled her bowl, then started washing the cutting board and knife Maya had left in the sink. She carried the chicken to the small table by the window, moving a stack of mail onto an empty chair.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“Electric bill. Something from your dentist. Three ads for people who want to buy a house we don’t own.”

He laughed and brought over the rice. Outside, traffic moved slowly through the wet intersection. Someone downstairs was playing music, the bass soft through the floor.

They sat across from each other. Daniel took one bite and reached for the salt.

“Long day?” Maya asked.

“Mostly meetings about future meetings. You?”

“My printer jammed during the presentation.”

“Did you win?”

“I removed the paper without crying.”

He raised his glass. “A professional.”

She tapped hers against it. After dinner, they agreed, he would pack the leftovers and she would wipe the counters. Then they would watch one episode of something, though both knew they might fall asleep before the ending.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing rice in a metal strainer. Outside, the last school bus groaned down their Ohio street. Their cat, Pepper, sat beside the refrigerator, watching her as if dinner were already late.

Evan came in through the back door carrying a grocery bag and his bike helmet.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said.

“We’ll survive.”

“I got parsley.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I panicked.”

Maya laughed and moved aside so he could wash his hands. They had lived together for two years, long enough to navigate the small kitchen without much discussion. She started the rice cooker while Evan unpacked chicken thighs, a lime, and a six-pack of seltzer. He put the receipt under a magnet on the refrigerator, beside the electric bill and a wedding invitation from one of his college friends.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

“About the bathroom fan? I emailed. He said he’ll send someone Thursday.”

“He said that last Thursday.”

Evan opened a seltzer and handed it to her before taking one for himself. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

They worked on tacos: Maya sliced an onion and warmed tortillas in a skillet while Evan seasoned the chicken. He dropped a piece of parsley on the floor, and Pepper pounced on it, then looked offended.

Maya told him about a meeting that should have been an email. Evan described a customer who had returned a perfectly good lamp because it was “too bright.” Their conversation drifted to whether they needed laundry detergent and whose turn it was to take the recycling out.

When the smoke alarm chirped from the browning chicken, Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

“Every time,” she said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s smoke.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, with hot sauce, lime wedges, and the unnecessary parsley between them. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya loaded the dishwasher. Nothing about the evening was special, but the house felt settled around them: dishes clinking, the furnace starting, Pepper waiting hopefully for something to fall.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice. Her boyfriend, Marcus, came in through the back door carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting everything on the counter. “I got parsley, but that feels dishonest.”

Lena laughed. “We’ll survive without either.”

They had lived together in the small rented duplex for almost two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them. Marcus emptied the dishwasher while Lena sliced a bell pepper and half an onion. The kitchen window had fogged slightly from the pot on the stove, and the ceiling fan clicked once every rotation.

“How was your meeting?” Marcus asked.

“Forty-five minutes that could’ve been an email.” She nudged the cutting board toward him. “Can you do the garlic?”

He peeled two cloves and minced them with more concentration than the task required. “My manager scheduled one of those for tomorrow.”

“Maybe it’s contagious.”

Their cat, Mabel, appeared at the sound of a can opening. Marcus tipped black beans into a strainer, then rinsed them while Mabel wound around his ankles.

“You already ate,” he told her.

“She disputes that,” Lena said.

They cooked the peppers and onions in a skillet, added beans, cumin, and the leftover chicken from Sunday. Marcus warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. One blistered too quickly and left a dark spot.

“That one’s yours,” Lena said.

“Chef’s portion.”

While the rice finished, she sorted the mail: electric bill, grocery coupons, a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. Marcus wiped the counter and filled two glasses with water.

They carried their plates to the small table by the living room. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Lena took a bite and nodded.

“Needs lime,” she said.

Marcus pointed toward the grocery bag. “For once, I remembered.”

She smiled, and he got up to fetch it.


Maya heard the garage door groan open while she was rinsing rice at the kitchen sink. A moment later, Daniel came in through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the blue ceramic bowl, and leaned against the counter to untie his shoes.

“How was traffic?” she asked.

“Slow by the bridge. How was your meeting?”

“Long. Nobody knew why we were there.”

He laughed, kissed her cheek, and opened the refrigerator. They had lived together for three years, long enough that dinner usually began without discussion. Maya measured water into the rice cooker while Daniel pulled out a package of chicken thighs and the half-used bag of green beans they had bought on Sunday.

“These still okay?” he asked, holding up the bag.

Maya inspected it. “Mostly. Toss the soft ones.”

Daniel trimmed the beans over the compost bin. Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, paprika, and the last of a jar of mustard. Their cat, Louise, appeared from the hallway and sat directly between them, hopeful and inconvenient.

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“This morning. She’s trying to renegotiate the schedule.”

While the chicken browned in the skillet, Daniel sorted the mail at the small dining table. He set aside a utility bill, recycled two flyers, and handed Maya an envelope from her dentist. She groaned and tucked it under the fruit bowl.

The rice cooker clicked. Maya lowered the heat under the chicken, and Daniel added the beans to another pan with garlic and a splash of water. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen—opening drawers, passing utensils, wiping up a streak of oil before someone stepped in it.

“Want to watch that detective show?” Maya asked.

“If we eat before eight.”

They carried their plates to the table, leaving the pans to soak. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Daniel filled two glasses with water, and Maya nudged the unopened utility bill toward him.

“After dinner,” he said.

“Definitely after dinner,” she agreed.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Maya home on her coat. She hung it over the back of a kitchen chair instead of in the closet, then slipped off her shoes beside Daniel’s muddy sneakers.

“What’s the plan?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.

Daniel stood at the counter, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. “The plan was spaghetti. The problem is we’re almost out of spaghetti.”

Maya held up a half-empty box. “This is enough if we make a salad.”

“Do we have lettuce?”

They both looked toward the crisper drawer. Daniel opened it and found a bag of spinach, slightly wilted but usable, along with two carrots and half a red onion.

“Salad-adjacent,” he said.

While he filled a pot with water, Maya sorted through the spinach, dropping the worst leaves into the compost bin under the sink. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. When Daniel reached for the cutting board, Maya shifted aside. When she needed the olive oil, he handed it over before she asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” She began peeling a carrot over the trash. “How was your day?”

“Printer broke again. Carl tried to fix it with a paper clip.”

“Did it work?”

“It made a noise.”

The water began to boil. Daniel snapped the remaining spaghetti in half despite Maya’s usual objection, and she gave him a look.

“It fits better,” he said.

“It fits if you wait ten seconds.”

Their cat, Juniper, appeared when Daniel opened the sauce, winding between his ankles as if tomato basil might somehow become chicken. Maya set two bowls on the small table, moving a stack of mail to the windowsill. An electricity bill slid to the floor.

“We should pay that tonight,” she said.

“After dinner.”

They ate with the rain tapping against the glass. The salad was unevenly chopped, the spaghetti slightly overcooked, and the sauce needed salt. Still, Daniel went back for seconds. Maya reached across the table and brushed a spot of sauce from his sleeve.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“I’ll dry.”

Neither of them moved yet.


Maya heard the garage door rattling open while she was rinsing rice at the kitchen sink. A moment later, Ben came through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl, and leaned against the counter to untie his shoes.

“How was traffic?” she asked.

“Slow by the bridge. How was your meeting?”

“It could’ve been an email.”

Ben laughed and opened the refrigerator. Their dog, Pepper, appeared from the hallway at the sound. “We have half a bell pepper, three carrots, and something in foil.”

“The foil is cake. Don’t put it in dinner.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Maya gave him a look. They had lived together long enough that she remembered his experimental peanut-butter chili.

They settled on stir-fry. Ben sliced the carrots while Maya pressed water from a block of tofu. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the cycle she had started that morning. A grocery list was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from a roadside diner in Ohio.

“We’re out of soy sauce,” Ben said, tipping the bottle.

“There’s another one in the pantry, behind the cereal.”

He found it, along with a bag of cashews they had forgotten about. Maya heated oil in the skillet, and soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and ginger. Ben fed Pepper a tiny piece of carrot, then denied doing it when Maya turned around.

While the vegetables cooked, they compared schedules. Ben had to be downtown early Thursday. Maya reminded him that the landlord was sending someone to check the water heater Friday afternoon.

“Can you be here?” she asked.

“If they come after two.”

“They said between noon and five.”

“Of course they did.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using mismatched bowls. Outside, a neighbor dragged recycling bins to the curb. Ben reached for the last cashew, and Maya tapped his chopsticks away.

“Save it for lunch tomorrow.”

He split it in half instead. After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers while Ben loaded the dishwasher, rearranging the plates until everything fit.


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 Ben searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I checked the door.”

“The top shelf of the door.”

He found it behind a jar of mustard and held it up. “You hid it.”

“Clearly.”

They had lived together in the rented duplex for eleven months, long enough to know which cabinet stuck in damp weather and which burner ran too hot. Their mail was piled beside the fruit bowl: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Ben’s cousins. Neither had opened it yet.

Maya tipped the peppers into a skillet, where they hissed beside onions and strips of chicken. Ben measured rice into the small saucepan, then paused.

“Two cups?”

“One and a half. We still have leftovers from yesterday.”

He glanced at the glass container in the refrigerator. “That’s three bites of pasta.”

“Three bites you said you were saving.”

“For emotional support.”

Maya laughed and nudged him aside so she could reach the spice drawer. Ben filled the saucepan at the sink, stepping around the cat, who had appeared at the sound of the chicken package opening.

While the rice simmered, Ben cleared two laptops and a stack of library books from the dining table. Maya rinsed the cutting board and listened as he described a meeting that should have been an email. She told him about a customer who had called her three times to ask the same question.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Normal long.”

He set out mismatched bowls and poured water into two glasses. Maya added sauce to the skillet, tasted it, and handed him the spoon.

“Needs lime,” he said.

“We don’t have lime.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

They ate at the table with the cat circling their chairs. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Ben reached for the unopened wedding invitation, but Maya pointed at his bowl.

“Dinner first.”

He put it down. “Dinner first.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, slicing a red bell pepper. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her phone played a public radio segment she wasn’t really listening to.

Evan came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said.

Maya looked up. “Again?”

“I bought parsley.”

“For tacos?”

He set the bag down. “It’s green.”

She laughed and nudged the cutting board toward him. “You can defend that decision while chopping the onion.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most tasks without discussing them. Maya cooked the chicken while Evan handled vegetables and warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner. He always left them too long, and she always rescued them with tongs.

On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from a vacation in Maine, their weekly calendar showed a dentist appointment, a trash reminder, and “Call landlord—bathroom fan.” Evan tapped the note.

“Did you call?”

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

“Might?”

“That’s what he said.”

Evan sighed, then opened the cabinet for plates. One was still damp from the dishwasher, so he dried it on his T-shirt.

“Use the towel,” Maya said.

“It’s already done.”

They carried everything to the small dining table near the window. Outside, a neighbor walked a beagle under the streetlights. A delivery van idled at the curb.

Halfway through dinner, Maya asked how Evan’s presentation had gone. He shrugged, then admitted his manager had liked it. She raised her water glass in a toast.

“To being secretly competent.”

“And to parsley tacos,” he said.

They ate the last two in comfortable silence. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya wiped the stove. Neither mentioned the laundry waiting on the couch until they walked into the living room and saw it.

“One episode while we fold?” he asked.

Maya picked up the remote. “Two, if you match the socks.”


Maya nudged the apartment door shut with her heel and set two grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Her keys landed in the ceramic bowl beside Daniel’s wallet.

“You’re home early,” he called from the hallway.

“By twelve minutes,” she said, taking out a carton of eggs. “Try not to be overwhelmed.”

Daniel appeared in socks and a faded university sweatshirt, carrying the laundry basket they had left on the bedroom floor that morning. He glanced into the bags. “I thought we were making tacos.”

“We are. The eggs are for breakfast. We were out.”

He nodded solemnly. “Crisis prevented.”

While Maya sliced a bell pepper, Daniel put the laundry away, returning with his sleeves pushed up. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had learned to move around each other without much thought. He reached past her for the skillet; she shifted toward the sink and handed him the oil.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. We spent forty minutes choosing a font.”

“Important work.”

“Democracy is exhausting.”

Daniel browned the ground turkey while Maya chopped cilantro and warmed tortillas over a burner. The vent fan rattled, as it always did. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from their trip to Chicago, the electric bill waited to be paid.

“Did you call the landlord about the bathroom faucet?” Maya asked.

“I emailed. He said someone can come Thursday between eight and noon.”

She groaned. “That means noon-thirty.”

“I can work from home.”

“Your turn anyway.”

“Fair.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with the local news playing quietly from the living room. Daniel had forgotten sour cream, so they used plain yogurt. Maya said it tasted the same. Daniel said it absolutely did not, then added another spoonful.

After dinner, she packed the leftovers into containers for lunch while he washed the skillet. Outside, headlights moved along the wet street. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the laundry basket sat empty, and tomorrow’s coffee was already measured into the machine.


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 searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking in the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He found it behind a bottle of salad dressing and held it up. “You could have said behind the dressing.”

“I assumed you’d conduct a thorough investigation.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus was small enough that they could talk from almost anywhere without raising their voices. Daniel carried the soy sauce to the stove, stepping around the reusable grocery bags they had forgotten to put away. A pan of chicken hissed over medium heat.

Maya tipped the peppers onto the cutting board beside a pile of broccoli. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. Kevin shared his screen for twenty minutes before realizing we couldn’t see it.” Daniel stirred the chicken. “How was your day?”

“One kid threw up during reading group.”

“That’s worse.”

“Not for Kevin.”

They laughed, and Maya opened the dishwasher to find it still full of clean dishes. She began unloading while Daniel added vegetables to the pan. He asked whether they had any rice left, and she pointed to a plastic container on the second refrigerator shelf.

“Microwave or fresh?” he asked.

“Microwave. I’m hungry now.”

Their cat, Pickles, appeared at the sound of the container opening and sat expectantly near Daniel’s feet. He nudged her away from the stove with his sock.

While the rice heated, Maya sorted the mail: a credit card offer, a utility bill, and a flyer for a roofing company. She put the bill beside Daniel’s laptop.

“We should pay that tonight,” she said.

“After dinner.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Then definitely after dinner.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using mismatched bowls from their college apartments. Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Daniel reached for the hot sauce and asked what they should watch later.

“Something short,” Maya said. “I still have papers to grade.”

He nodded. “One episode.”

They both knew it might become two, but neither mentioned it.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and laundry detergent. Maya had started a load of towels before leaving for work that morning, and now they sat damp in the washer, forgotten until she came through the door.

“Please tell me you remembered them,” she called, dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entrance.

Evan looked up from the cutting board. “I remembered them at four. Then I forgot them again.”

Maya laughed and went straight to the laundry closet. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which chores required reminders and which required resignation. As she moved the towels to the dryer, Evan sliced bell peppers for fajitas. A skillet warmed on the stove, and a package of tortillas rested beside the microwave.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.” She shut the dryer door and pressed the button. “You?”

“The printer jammed twice, and Kevin brought leftover fish into the break room.”

“So, worse than mine.”

“Much worse.”

Maya washed her hands and began grating cheese. Evan added onions and peppers to the skillet, filling the small kitchen with a sharp, savory hiss. Their cat, Juniper, appeared from the hallway and sat beside the refrigerator, watching with professional interest.

“She already ate,” Maya said.

“She disputes that.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Maya opened the cabinet just as Evan reached for cumin; he stepped aside, then handed it to her instead. She set out two mismatched plates and checked the mail piled on the counter.

“Electric bill came,” she said.

“I’ll pay it tonight.”

“You said that about the internet bill.”

“I paid that.”

“After they emailed me.”

He smiled. “A successful reminder system.”

When the chicken was done, they carried everything to the small dining table by the window. Outside, traffic moved along the wet street, tires whispering over pavement. Maya folded a tortilla around peppers, chicken, and too much cheese.

“We need groceries tomorrow,” she said.

Evan nodded. “And detergent.”

“And cat food.”

From beneath the table, Juniper gave a short, timely meow.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the wet pavement outside. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing bell peppers while Daniel emptied the dishwasher, pausing every few seconds to inspect a container for leftover water.

“Top cabinet,” Maya said without looking up.

“I know where the containers go.”

“You’ve been holding that one for a full minute.”

Daniel slid it onto the shelf. “I was thinking.”

“About plastic storage?”

“About whether we have rice.”

They did not. Daniel checked the pantry twice, then added it to the grocery list on the refrigerator. Maya suggested couscous instead, and he found a half-full box behind the cereal.

Their townhouse was small enough that the kitchen opened directly into the living room. Daniel’s work bag still sat beside the couch, where he had dropped it after commuting home. Maya’s laptop was open on the dining table, its screen dimmed beside a stack of unopened mail.

Daniel set a skillet on the stove and poured in oil. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

Maya nudged the chopped peppers toward him with the flat of the knife. He tipped them into the pan, and they hissed. While he stirred, she opened a can of chickpeas and rinsed them in the sink.

They talked about the neighbor’s barking dog, a medical bill that still needed sorting out, and whether the bathroom faucet was dripping more than usual. Daniel said he would look at it Saturday. Maya reminded him they were visiting his sister Saturday.

“Sunday, then,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow but let it go.

When the couscous was ready, Maya fluffed it with a fork while Daniel added lemon juice and too much paprika to the skillet. They ate at the table, pushing the mail aside to make room for their bowls.

“This is good,” Maya said.

“Too smoky?”

“A little.”

Daniel nodded. “I’ll forget that next time.”

She smiled and reached across the table for his water glass because hers was still on the counter. Outside, tires whispered along the damp street, and the dishwasher, left open, waited behind them.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Her boyfriend, Eric, came in through the garage with a canvas grocery bag tucked against his hip.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter.

Maya looked inside. “These are fine.”

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

“Then we’ll call them bowls.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented townhouse outside Denver. The kitchen was narrow, with barely enough room for both of them, so they moved around each other by habit. Eric washed his hands while Maya slid a sheet pan into the oven to warm. He opened a package of chicken thighs and began trimming them at the cutting board.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed the website was confusing, but nobody agreed on how to fix it.” She shook water from the broccoli. “How was traffic?”

“Normal bad.”

The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the cycle they had started that morning. Maya opened it, took out two clean plates, and stacked them near the stove. Eric seasoned the chicken with cumin, salt, and too much smoked paprika. She noticed but said nothing.

While the chicken cooked, Maya sorted the mail at the small dining table: a utility bill, a coupon flyer, and a postcard reminding Eric about a dentist appointment. He leaned over her shoulder.

“I already rescheduled that.”

“You said that last time.”

“I actually did it this time.”

They ate at the table with the television off, filling tortillas with chicken, broccoli, and salsa. One tortilla split immediately, spilling onto Eric’s plate.

Maya pointed with her fork. “Bowl.”

He laughed and fetched a spoon. After dinner, he packed the leftovers while she wiped the counters. They debated whether to take a walk, looked at the dark windows, and decided instead to fold the laundry waiting on the couch.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and wet pavement. Rain tapped against the kitchen window while Maya stood at the counter, slicing a red pepper into uneven strips. She still wore her office badge, though she had kicked off her shoes beside the front door.

Evan came in carrying two grocery bags and shook water from his jacket onto the mat.

“Please tell me you found cilantro,” Maya said.

He lifted one bag. “Cilantro, tortillas, and the expensive salsa you like.”

“The medium one?”

“The label says medium. Your definition may differ.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which disagreements were real and which were simply part of making dinner. Evan unpacked a can of black beans and a carton of eggs while Maya moved her laptop off the small dining table. A pile of unopened mail sat beside a bowl containing three keys, loose change, and a single dog biscuit, though they did not own a dog.

“Mrs. Alvarez’s terrier again?” Evan asked.

“He escaped in the hallway. I bribed him.”

Evan rinsed the cilantro, then began warming tortillas in a skillet. Maya stirred peppers and onions in another pan, nudging them aside so he could reach the salt. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had developed a quiet choreography: turn sideways, open the refrigerator carefully, announce anything hot.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet everyone had already approved.”

“Productive.”

“How was the dentist?”

“No cavities. Apparently I should floss like it’s my job.”

They scrambled eggs into the vegetables and added beans, making breakfast tacos because neither had planned anything else. Evan set out mismatched plates while Maya filled two glasses from the water filter.

At the table, rainwater slid down the window in crooked lines. Evan took one bite and reached for the salsa.

“Medium?” Maya asked.

He coughed, eyes watering. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed and passed him her water. The dishwasher hummed behind them, and somewhere upstairs a vacuum started. It was an ordinary Tuesday, with laundry still waiting in the bedroom and work emails unanswered, but dinner was warm, and they were home.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Her boyfriend, Ethan, came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the grocery store.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the sack on the counter. “I got the other kind.”

Maya examined the package. “These are fine. Did you remember limes?”

Ethan pulled two from the bag with a small flourish.

They had lived together in the rented townhouse for nearly two years, long enough for their routines to overlap without much discussion. Maya chopped the broccoli while Ethan started rice in the dented saucepan they kept meaning to replace. The dishwasher hummed beside them, full from the night before because neither had remembered to run it until breakfast.

“How was the meeting?” Ethan asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” She slid the vegetables into a bowl. “How was traffic?”

“Accident near the exit. I listened to half a podcast about municipal water systems.”

“Exciting.”

“More interesting than you’d think.”

They made tacos from leftover chicken, warming it in a skillet with onions and cumin. Ethan grated cheese while Maya cleared a stack of mail from the small kitchen table—an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of his cousins. She placed the invitation on the refrigerator under a magnet shaped like Ohio.

“We should RSVP,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“That’s what we said yesterday.”

He reached for his phone, and they decided on the chicken option for both of them.

When dinner was ready, Maya carried the plates to the table while Ethan filled two glasses with tap water and squeezed lime into each. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk. Upstairs, the dryer buzzed.

“I’ll switch the laundry after we eat,” Ethan said.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He smiled and handed her a tortilla. “Then prepare to be impressed.”

They sat down together, tired but comfortable, as the kitchen slowly filled with the smell of toasted corn and cumin.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, slicing a bell pepper. The apartment windows were cracked open, letting in traffic noise and the smell of someone’s laundry detergent from the dryer vent below.

Evan came in carrying the mail and set it on the counter beside her.

“Anything good?” Maya asked.

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

He opened the refrigerator and stared into it.

“The chicken’s on the second shelf,” she said.

“I was looking for the mustard.”

“Door, behind the hot sauce.”

They had lived together long enough for Maya to know where Evan had misplaced things, and for Evan to know she would use every cutting board while making one dinner. He found the mustard, then took the chicken from the fridge and began mixing a quick marinade in a chipped blue bowl.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Diane said ‘circle back’ seven times.”

“Only seven?”

“I counted.”

Evan laughed and carried the bowl to the stove. While the skillet heated, Maya swept pepper seeds into her palm and dropped them into the trash. Their cat, June, appeared at the sound of the chicken package and sat expectantly between them.

“You already ate,” Evan told her.

June blinked.

Maya started rice, then leaned against the counter and checked the weather on her phone. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Can you bring the patio cushions in?”

“After dinner.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll actually do it today.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen: Evan turning the chicken, Maya washing the knife and setting two plates on the small table. She added the peppers to the pan, and steam fogged the window over the sink.

When everything was ready, Evan filled their water glasses while Maya divided the rice. They sat beneath the crooked pendant light, with the unopened mail still on the counter and June waiting nearby for something to fall.

“Not bad for a Tuesday,” Evan said.

Maya tasted the chicken. “Needs salt.”

He passed it to her without argument.


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 a spreadsheet she had promised herself she wouldn’t check again.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and their mail. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting everything beside the fruit bowl. “So I got the ones that taste like envelopes.”

“We’ll survive.” Maya shook water from the broccoli. “Did you get limes?”

He pulled two from the bag with a small flourish.

They had lived together for three years, long enough to move around each other without asking. Evan put rice on the stove while Maya cut the broccoli and a red pepper. He opened the dishwasher, found it clean, and sighed.

“I forgot to run it last night,” Maya said.

“No, I forgot. You loaded it.”

“That sounds suspiciously generous.”

Evan began putting away plates while the rice simmered. Maya heated oil in their scratched skillet and added the vegetables. The smoke detector chirped once, offended but not committed. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Anything interesting in the mail?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Coupon for gutters. Wedding invitation from Nate.”

Maya glanced over. “Another barn?”

“Looks like a vineyard.”

“Close enough.”

He smiled and sliced a lime. They had discussed marriage in the vague, practical way they discussed replacing the couch—something they both expected eventually, though neither felt hurried.

When the vegetables softened, Evan warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, burning one edge. Maya added leftover chicken and found the hot sauce behind three jars of mustard.

They ate at the small table near the window. Rainwater shone on the street, and someone across the road dragged a recycling bin to the curb.

“Trash night,” Evan said.

“I cooked.”

“I know.” He took another taco. “I’m going.”

Maya reached across the table and brushed a grain of rice from his sleeve. “After dinner.”

“After dinner,” he agreed.


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. Outside, rain darkened the street and ticked against the window over the sink. Their dog, Benny, waited hopefully beneath the cutting board.

“Did you feed him?” she called.

Evan came in from the hallway carrying the mail and his laptop bag. “At five-thirty. He’s trying to create doubt.”

Benny wagged his tail.

“Very convincing doubt,” Maya said.

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop disagreeing about where the good scissors belonged. Evan set the mail beside the fruit bowl, washed his hands, and opened the refrigerator.

“Chicken tacos?” he asked.

“That was the plan, but the avocados are basically rocks.”

He squeezed one anyway. “We can do rice bowls. Chicken, peppers, salsa.”

Maya handed him an onion. “You chop. I cried enough at work today.”

“Bad meeting?”

“Just three meetings that should’ve been emails.”

While Evan diced the onion, Maya sliced peppers and warmed oil in their scratched blue skillet. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, trading utensils, nudging the dishwasher closed with a knee. Evan told her the office printer had jammed again. Maya reminded him that the electric bill was due Friday.

“I’ll pay it after dinner,” he said. “Unless you already did.”

“I did.”

“Then I’ll clean the bathroom.”

“That’s a fair exchange only in your imagination.”

The onion hissed when it hit the pan. Evan opened a can of black beans, rinsed them, and scattered some shredded cheese into a bowl. Maya tasted the rice and added salt.

They ate at the small table by the window, with Benny lying between their chairs. The rain had softened. Evan reached for the salsa and asked what they should watch later.

“Something where nobody has a job,” Maya said.

He nodded. “Fantasy, then.”

She laughed, and he passed her the salsa.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Maya home. She left her damp shoes on the mat, hung her jacket over a chair, and found Daniel standing at the kitchen counter, reading the back of a rice package.

“Did you just get here?” she asked.

“Ten minutes ago. I’m trying to remember whether we bought the quick kind.”

Maya looked over his shoulder. “That says forty-five minutes.”

“So, no.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which cabinet door stuck in humid weather and whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher, but not long enough to stop negotiating dinner. Daniel opened the refrigerator while Maya changed out of her work clothes. When she returned in sweatpants, he had arranged their options on the counter: half a rotisserie chicken, broccoli, two carrots, and a container of rice from Sunday.

“Fried rice?” he suggested.

“Perfect.”

Maya chopped the vegetables while Daniel pulled meat from the chicken. They talked about their days in pieces. Her supervisor had moved a deadline up. His bus had stalled three stops from the office. Their landlord had emailed about testing the smoke detectors on Saturday.

“Morning or afternoon?” Maya asked.

“Just says between nine and one.”

She sighed. “There goes sleeping in.”

Daniel heated oil in their largest skillet. It leaned slightly on the burner, so he held the handle while Maya tipped in the carrots and broccoli. The pan hissed. She added rice, and he found the soy sauce behind a jar of mustard.

While the food cooked, Maya fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. Daniel cleared unopened mail from the small table and set out two mismatched bowls.

They ate by the window, watching headlights smear across the wet street below. The fried rice was a little too salty, but neither mentioned it. Afterward, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. She wrote his name on one container, though they both knew he would take whichever one was closest to the door.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper. A moment later, Daniel came in carrying his laptop bag and the mail.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the previous owner.” He set the stack beside the fruit bowl, then loosened his tie. “How was your day?”

“Three meetings that could’ve been emails.” Maya nodded toward the refrigerator. “Can you get the chicken out? I forgot to do it earlier.”

Daniel washed his hands, found the container of marinated chicken, and set it by the stove. Their house was small—a two-bedroom ranch they had been renting for nearly a year—but the kitchen had enough room for both of them if they moved carefully.

“Rice?” he asked.

“Please. And check whether the dishwasher’s clean.”

It was. Daniel unloaded plates while the rice cooker clicked on. Maya heated a skillet, and soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and soy sauce. He opened the back door for a minute after the smoke alarm gave a warning chirp.

“You said you were going to replace that battery,” Maya said.

“I did replace it. It’s just dramatic.”

She laughed and handed him the wooden spoon. “Stir these.”

While Daniel cooked the vegetables, Maya fed their cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. They talked about a coworker’s retirement party, whether they needed more laundry detergent, and the neighbor’s recycling bin, which had blown into their driveway again.

Daniel tasted the sauce. “Needs something.”

“Lime.”

They didn’t have one, so he added a little rice vinegar instead. Maya set out two mismatched bowls and filled water glasses from the refrigerator dispenser.

By seven, they were sitting at the narrow table beneath the window. Daniel took one bite and nodded.

“Good substitute,” he said.

Maya glanced at the dishes waiting in the sink. “You’re still cleaning up.”

“Fair,” he said, reaching for another spoonful.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through a bag of green beans. Her boyfriend, Marcus, came in from the garage carrying his laptop bag and the mail.

“Anything good?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to ‘Current Resident.’ So, basically, no.”

He dropped the envelopes beside the fruit bowl and kissed her cheek. They had lived in the small Ohio townhouse for two years, long enough that their routines overlapped without much discussion. Lena snapped the ends off the beans while Marcus washed his hands and opened the refrigerator.

“Chicken?” he asked.

“Top shelf. I thought we could roast it.”

Marcus pulled out the package, then paused. “Did we use the last of the olive oil?”

“There’s another bottle behind the cereal.”

“Of course there is.”

Lena smiled. Marcus complained about her habit of storing pantry items wherever they fit, but he always found them eventually. He seasoned the chicken over the sink while she put the beans in a skillet with garlic. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the night before.

“How was your meeting?” Marcus asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

“And your day?”

“Caleb called in sick, so I covered his afternoon appointments.” He slid the pan into the oven. “I’m not answering my phone tonight.”

While dinner cooked, Lena wiped the counter and Marcus emptied the dishwasher, putting two bowls in the wrong cabinet. She moved them without comment. He noticed anyway.

“I’ll learn someday,” he said.

“You’ve only lived here since 2022.”

They ate at the narrow table near the sliding door, with the television murmuring from the living room. Halfway through dinner, Marcus remembered the trash needed to go out. Lena reminded him that the recycling did too.

Afterward, she packed leftovers for their lunches while he carried both bins to the curb. When he came back, the porch light caught him checking whether he had locked his car. Lena watched through the window, amused by the familiar gesture, then turned on the kettle for tea.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse still held the day’s stale warmth, so she cracked the window above the sink. Outside, a neighbor dragged a recycling bin toward the curb.

Marcus came in from the garage carrying a paper grocery bag and his laptop case. He set both down and kissed her cheek.

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

“The flour ones?”

“The flour ones you like. I got corn.”

Lena looked at the bag. “We’ll survive.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough for dinner to follow familiar patterns. Marcus unpacked chicken thighs, limes, and a bunch of cilantro while Lena cleared two unopened envelopes and a phone charger from the counter. The dishwasher was clean but still full, so Marcus emptied it as the skillet heated.

“How was the meeting?” he asked, stacking bowls in the cabinet.

“Forty-five minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.” She shook water from the broccoli. “How was traffic?”

“Someone lost a mattress on the highway.”

“Again?”

“Different mattress, probably.”

He seasoned the chicken while she chopped an onion. When her eyes began watering, Marcus turned on the vent fan, though it rattled loudly enough that they had to raise their voices. Lena put rice in the microwave and checked the calendar on the refrigerator.

“Your dentist is Thursday,” she called.

“I know.”

“You said that last time.”

“I know more convincingly now.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using the last of the hot sauce and talking about whether they could postpone mowing the lawn until Saturday. Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers into glass containers while Marcus washed the skillet by hand. He left it drying beside the sink, and she wiped the stove.

Nothing about the evening felt memorable. The laundry still needed folding, and both of them had emails waiting. But when Marcus handed Lena a dish towel without being asked, she took it, smiling, and bumped her shoulder against his.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and rain. Water ticked against the kitchen window while Maya stood at the counter, slicing a bell pepper into uneven strips. She still wore her office badge, though she had kicked off her shoes by the front door.

Evan came in carrying a canvas grocery bag and shook droplets from his jacket.

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

Maya glanced at the package he set down. “Those are fine.”

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

“Only because you overfill them.”

He opened the refrigerator and found the container of leftover rice behind a jar of pickles. Their cat, Louie, appeared at the sound of the door and stared hopefully into the lower shelves.

“There’s nothing for you,” Evan told him.

Maya slid the peppers into the skillet with the onions. They hissed, and she turned on the vent fan. “Can you rinse the beans?”

“Already on it.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. Evan drained the beans in the colander, then wiped up the water he splashed near the sink. Maya added cumin, tasted the vegetables, and reached past him for the salt.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Priya said ‘circle back’ six times.”

“Only six?”

She laughed. “How was your day?”

“Ordinary. The printer jammed. Kyle blamed humidity.”

Evan warmed the tortillas one at a time over the gas burner, watching their edges blister. Maya set two chipped plates on the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. She moved the mail to the windowsill and filled their water glasses.

When everything was ready, they assembled their tacos at the counter. One tortilla tore under Evan’s first scoop of rice.

Maya raised an eyebrow.

“Defective tortilla,” he said.

“Obviously.”

They carried their plates to the table. Louie settled between their chairs, and outside, a bus sighed to a stop at the corner. Evan reached for the hot sauce while Maya began telling him about the email she had almost sent to the wrong department, and dinner slipped into the familiar rhythm of their evening.