By five o’clock, the apartment smelled like garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Ben knelt in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“375. If you burn the chicken, we’re ordering pizza.”

Ben adjusted the dial and checked the roasting pan. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most household tasks without discussion. Maya handled the salad and set the table; Ben cooked the main dish and chose the music. Tonight, though, both kept crossing into the other’s territory. Ben moved Maya’s water glasses to make room for wine, and she lowered the volume on his playlist when it became difficult to hear the timer.

Their friends arrived just after seven. Luis and Erin brought a bottle of red wine, while Tasha appeared with bakery cookies in a paper box.

“I said not to bring anything,” Maya told her.

“And I ignored you,” Tasha said, handing Ben the box.

The apartment was small, so they pulled a desk chair up to the dining table and used a wooden crate as a stand for the wine. Ben carved the chicken while Maya passed roasted potatoes and green beans. For a few minutes, everyone ate quietly.

“This is actually good,” Luis said.

Ben pointed his fork at him. “The word ‘actually’ was unnecessary.”

After dinner, Maya made coffee while Ben cleared plates. He dropped a fork, and everyone laughed when it bounced under the refrigerator. Erin helped Maya wrap leftover cookies, and Luis dried dishes beside Ben, who washed them with his sleeves pushed to his elbows.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. Maya found a wineglass on the windowsill and carried it to the kitchen. Ben was wiping crumbs from the table into his palm.

“That went well,” he said.

“You nearly forgot the bread.”

“But I remembered it.”

“After I reminded you.”

He smiled and handed her the dish towel. Together they finished cleaning, then stood in the quiet kitchen sharing the last cookie over the sink.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Elena stood at the counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, checking the chicken through the cloudy glass.

“Still pale,” he said.

“You opened the door twice.”

“I’m gathering information.”

“You’re letting the heat out.”

They had invited four friends, which was the most their narrow dining table could hold if they added the folding chair from the bedroom. Marcus set out mismatched plates while Elena stirred lemon into a bowl of yogurt sauce. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them and still disagree about where the serving spoons belonged.

At six-fifteen, Marcus realized they had no ice. He ran to the corner store while Elena changed her shirt, wiped flour from the faucet, and moved a stack of mail into a kitchen drawer. When he returned, carrying two bags and a bottle of sparkling water, she was lighting the candle on the table.

“Too much?” she asked.

“It hides the scratch.”

The first knock came at six-thirty. Priya brought wine, and Ben arrived behind her with a bakery box. Soon afterward, Tasha and Will appeared, apologizing about traffic.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. Marcus carved the chicken, though one thigh was slightly underdone and had to go back in the oven. Elena passed roasted potatoes and asked Priya about her new job. Someone spilled water near the bread basket. Will told a long story about his landlord, and Tasha made everyone laugh by imitating the man’s voicemail greeting.

After dessert, the guests helped stack plates but refused to wash them. By ten, the apartment was quiet again.

Marcus filled the sink with hot water. Elena wrapped the leftover chicken and labeled the container with a piece of tape.

“That went well,” he said.

“The potatoes were cold.”

“They were warm enough.”

She handed him a dish towel. Together they cleaned the kitchen, stepping around each other in the familiar, limited space.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like garlic and warm bread. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the clock above the refrigerator. Daniel was at the kitchen table, folding paper napkins into uneven triangles.

“They don’t have to look fancy,” Maya said.

“I’m not trying to make them fancy. I’m trying to make them stand up.”

“They’re napkins, not architecture.”

Daniel flattened one and started over. They had invited four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving into the apartment last spring. Their dining table officially seated four, so Daniel had borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs.

Maya tasted the sauce and added salt. Daniel carried the chairs in from the hallway, then shifted the table six inches toward the window. Together they set out mismatched plates, water glasses, and a bottle of inexpensive red wine. Maya lit a candle, frowned at its strong vanilla scent, and blew it out.

The buzzer rang at six-forty, twenty minutes earlier than expected. Daniel looked at the counter, where a cutting board was still covered with parsley stems.

“Can you get that?” Maya asked, already gathering the stems into her palm.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing salad, beer, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put music on Daniel’s phone, and the small apartment quickly filled with conversation.

At dinner, one folding chair wobbled. Daniel fixed it with a folded coaster while Maya passed bowls of pasta. The bread was slightly burned underneath, but everyone ate it anyway. When the wine ran out, they opened the beer.

After dessert, their friends stayed longer than planned, talking about rent increases, work, and a possible summer trip. Near midnight, the last guests left.

Maya leaned against the closed door. Daniel surveyed the crowded sink.

“I think that went well,” he said.

Maya picked up two glasses from the coffee table. “It did. You wash, I’ll dry.”

He turned on the faucet, and she opened the window to let the cool night air into the warm apartment.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Nina stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce with one hand and scrolling through a recipe on her phone with the other.

“Did you buy basil?” she asked.

Evan stopped halfway through setting the table. “I bought parsley.”

“They’re not interchangeable.”

“They’re both green.”

Nina gave him a look, and he reached for his jacket. Ten minutes later, he returned from the corner market with basil, a bag of ice, and a chocolate cake he claimed had been on sale.

They were hosting four friends, the most they could fit around their secondhand dining table. Evan added two folding chairs and covered a scratch in the wood with a bowl of lemons. Nina tasted the sauce, added salt, then asked him to open the wine.

At seven, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing flowers, beer, and a container of roasted vegetables. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full of camping gear and an old vacuum cleaner.

Dinner began awkwardly when one folding chair wobbled. Evan folded a napkin and slid it under the short leg. Nina carried in the pasta, and everyone applauded as if she had performed a trick.

The sauce was slightly too spicy, but nobody complained. They talked about a coworker’s strange emails, rising rent, and whether it was worth driving north to see the fall leaves. Evan kept water glasses filled. Nina passed bread and reminded him to sit down.

After dinner, they served the cake directly from its plastic container. One friend washed dishes despite their protests, while another chose music from Evan’s phone. By ten thirty, the apartment was warm and cluttered with empty bottles and used plates.

When the last guest left, Nina leaned against the closed door.

“That went well,” she said.

Evan looked toward the kitchen sink. “Ask me after cleanup.”

They worked side by side, Nina washing and Evan drying. Near midnight, they ate the last two bites of cake over the sink, too tired to find plates.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and toasted cumin. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato soup while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the mismatched chairs.

“Please tell me that thing won’t collapse under Chris,” Maya said.

“It’ll hold,” Daniel replied, testing it with both hands. “Probably.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Ohio apartment could comfortably fit. Maya had planned grilled cheese sandwiches and soup, simple enough until she decided to make three kinds of sandwiches. Daniel had volunteered to clean, then spent twenty minutes arranging a playlist.

At six, Maya noticed they were out of butter.

“I used the last of it this morning,” Daniel admitted.

“For toast?”

“For eggs.”

She looked at him, then at the sliced bread covering the counter. Daniel grabbed his jacket and hurried to the corner market. While he was gone, Maya lowered the soup, cleared a stack of mail from the kitchen counter, and moved their drying laundry into the bedroom.

Daniel returned with butter, sparkling water, and a bag of ice. “The ice felt responsible,” he said.

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, cookies, and a potted basil plant. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and introduced two guests who had never met, while Maya worked the skillet, pressing sandwiches until the cheese melted at the edges.

They ate close together around the table. The repaired chair squeaked but held. Someone spilled soup, and Daniel fetched a towel before Maya could stand. Later, Maya divided the cookies onto a plate while Daniel made coffee in batches because their machine was too small.

By ten-thirty, the last guests had left. The apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

Maya leaned against the counter. “That went well.”

Daniel looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She handed him a dish towel anyway, and together they started cleaning.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and set the table with the blue plates her aunt had given her. Marcus stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while checking the garlic bread through the oven window.

“Did you buy sparkling water?” Elena asked.

Marcus stopped stirring. “I bought regular water.”

Elena opened the refrigerator and shifted a carton of eggs. “We have six cans. That’s enough.”

They were expecting four friends from work and the neighborhood. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the apartment in Columbus, and the living room still had an unpacked box beside the bookcase. Elena carried it to the bedroom while Marcus tasted the sauce and added salt.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their neighbor Tasha arrived first, holding a grocery-store bouquet. Behind her came Daniel and Priya with a bottle of wine, followed by Marcus’s coworker Ben, who apologized for being late even though he was only five minutes behind everyone else.

The apartment quickly felt smaller. Coats piled on the bed, glasses gathered on the coffee table, and the kitchen filled with conversation. Elena finished the salad while answering Priya’s questions about their landlord. Marcus drained the pasta, splashing hot water onto the floor.

“I’ve got it,” Elena said, reaching for a towel.

“No, keep going,” he replied, wiping the tiles with his socked foot before finding the mop.

Dinner was crowded but easy. They passed bowls from hand to hand and laughed when the garlic bread turned out darker than Marcus had intended. Tasha asked whether they planned to stay in the neighborhood, and Elena and Marcus exchanged a brief look.

“For now,” Marcus said.

“We like it here,” Elena added.

After everyone left, they stood together at the sink. Marcus washed while Elena dried. The apartment smelled of coffee and roasted garlic.

“That went well,” he said.

Elena stacked the last plate. “Next time, we need more sparkling water.”

Marcus smiled. “Next time, you’re making the sauce.”


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the baked pasta. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which tasks belonged to whom without discussing them, though they still discussed them anyway.

“Did you get ice?” Lena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I got wine.”

“So no ice.”

“I’ll go.”

She laughed and handed him the grocery list, where “ICE” was underlined twice. While he drove to the convenience store, Lena set out six mismatched plates, including two blue ones they had bought at a yard sale. She folded paper napkins into rectangles, then unfolded them because they looked too formal.

Marcus returned with ice, sparkling water, and a bag of tortilla chips. Together they finished the salad and slid the pasta into the oven. Lena tasted the dressing and added lemon. Marcus wiped sauce from the stove and took the recycling downstairs.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another: Priya and Daniel with flowers, and Owen carrying a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the apartment’s hall closet would not close properly.

Dinner began late after Marcus realized he had forgotten to turn on the oven timer. The pasta was browned at the edges but still good. Everyone squeezed around the table, passing salad over elbows and balancing glasses near the salt shaker. They talked about rent increases, a difficult manager at Priya’s office, and whether Owen should adopt the elderly dog he had been fostering.

After dessert, Daniel helped Marcus stack plates while Lena made coffee. Someone put on music from a phone, and the conversation drifted into the living room.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Lena gathered glasses; Marcus wrapped the remaining cake.

“That went well,” he said.

“We forgot to serve the bread.”

They looked at the untouched loaf on top of the refrigerator.

“Breakfast,” Marcus said.

Lena nodded, turned off the kitchen light, and followed him down the hall.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the faintly scorched dust of the radiator. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to read the temperature dial through the scratched glass.

“It runs hot,” she reminded him.

“It runs mysterious,” he said, lowering the heat beneath the roasting chicken.

They had invited four friends, which was the most their secondhand dining table could hold. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor. Maya cleared unopened mail from the table and carried it to the bedroom, where she placed it on an already unstable stack.

They worked around each other without much discussion. She made a salad and tasted the dressing from a spoon. He washed wineglasses, holding each one up to the light for spots. When Maya realized they had forgotten bread, Daniel put on his coat and jogged to the corner market. He returned ten minutes later with two baguettes and a bag of ice.

“You got enough for a restaurant,” she said.

“I panicked.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a pie from a bakery across town. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker on the bookshelf, and music filled the living room.

At dinner, the chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes were crisp. Maya kept the salad bowl moving around the table, while Daniel refilled water glasses and told the story of the smoke alarm going off during their first week in the apartment. Everyone talked over one another about rent increases, a new manager at work, and whether they could manage a summer trip together.

After dessert, their guests lingered until nearly eleven. At the door, Maya handed back scarves and Daniel found a missing glove under the couch.

When the apartment was quiet again, they stood among plates and half-empty glasses.

“Worth it?” Daniel asked.

Maya leaned against him, tired. “Ask me after we load the dishwasher.”

Together, they carried the first stack into the kitchen.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and onions. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the recipe on her phone. Across the kitchen, Ben sliced a loaf of bread, producing pieces of wildly different thicknesses.

“Those are less like slices and more like geological layers,” Maya said.

“They’ll taste the same,” Ben replied, arranging them on a baking sheet.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their new apartment outside Denver. They had lived together for eight months, long enough to divide most chores without discussion, but hosting still made them nervous.

Ben vacuumed the living room and moved a stack of unopened mail into the bedroom. Maya set the table with mismatched plates, then counted the forks twice. When she realized they had only five wineglasses, Ben washed a jam jar and placed it at his own seat.

At six-fifteen, the sauce began to stick. Maya turned down the heat while Ben opened the windows, letting in cold November air. The smoke alarm stayed silent.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying salad, wine, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker near the television, and quiet music filled the room.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Ben served pasta from the pot because they had no large bowl. Maya passed grated Parmesan and reminded everyone that the bread was hot. One piece fell to the floor, and their friend Lena picked it up before Ben could.

Conversation moved from work to rent increases to a camping trip they kept promising to organize. The sauce was slightly too salty, but nobody complained. They finished both loaves of bread.

After dessert, their friends helped carry dishes to the kitchen. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again.

Ben filled the sink with soapy water while Maya wrapped the remaining cake.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded counter and smiled. “Ask me after we clean.”

He handed her a dish towel, and they started together.


By five, the apartment smelled of garlic and furniture polish. Maya had wiped the dining table twice, though Daniel insisted the second pass only moved dust from one side to the other.

“It’s an old table,” he said, carrying in two folding chairs from the bedroom closet. “It has character.”

“It has crumbs in the grooves.”

They were hosting four friends, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without someone eating from the windowsill. Maya chopped parsley for the pasta while Daniel shaped meatballs and lined them on a baking sheet. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, trading utensils, and occasionally bumping hips.

At six, Daniel realized they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya changed her shirt after splattering tomato sauce on the sleeve. When he returned, she was standing on a chair, trying to replace a burned-out bulb above the table.

“Please get down,” he said, setting the ice on the counter. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re holding melting ice.”

They switched jobs. Maya filled a bowl and wedged it into the freezer; Daniel changed the bulb.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put on music from a phone, and the apartment quickly grew warm.

The pasta stuck together slightly, and one meatball rolled off the serving plate. Daniel caught it against his sweater before it hit the floor. Everyone laughed, including Maya, who handed him a napkin.

Dinner stretched for two hours. They discussed rent increases, a friend’s new supervisor, and whether anyone truly enjoyed running. Maya refilled glasses; Daniel cleared plates and started coffee.

After the last guests left, they stood among half-empty cups and crumpled napkins.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the sauce on his sweater and the crowded sink. “It did.”

They packed leftovers, loaded the dishwasher, and left the folding chairs for morning. Then they split the last piece of pie at the kitchen counter, eating directly from the tin.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel wrestled with the folding table they had borrowed from the downstairs neighbor.

“It’s supposed to lock,” he said, crouching to inspect the metal legs.

“It’s also supposed to be a table,” Maya replied. “Aim for that first.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Their dining table seated three comfortably, four if nobody moved their elbows, so Daniel set up the folding table beside it and covered both with a blue tablecloth. The uneven heights bothered him until Maya tucked a folded dish towel under one leg.

While she seasoned chicken thighs, Daniel rinsed rice and searched for the missing measuring cup. They found it in the refrigerator, inside a container of leftover soup.

“You did that,” he said.

“I probably did,” Maya admitted.

At six thirty, Daniel changed his shirt after splashing dishwater on it. Maya lit two candles, then blew one out because its scent competed with dinner. They disagreed briefly about music and settled on an old soul playlist neither had chosen.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, seltzer, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the kitchen window when the smoke alarm chirped as Maya pulled the chicken from the oven.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Daniel kept refilling water glasses and passing the salad. Maya told the story of the measuring cup, exaggerating his accusation until everyone laughed. One guest dropped a fork; another asked for the chicken recipe.

After dessert, their friends helped stack plates before leaving. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel washed while Maya dried. They worked without speaking for a few minutes, listening to the radiator knock.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded dish rack and the wine ring on the tablecloth.

“It did,” she said. “Next time, we order pizza.”

Daniel handed her the last plate. “And buy a real table.”

They left the folding one standing until morning.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter, trimming green beans, while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Definitely not 425,” Maya said. “Unless we want to serve charcoal.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor while Maya arranged mismatched plates around a bowl of grocery-store tulips.

At six, the chicken was roasting, the beans were blanched, and Daniel had begun making rice. He lifted the lid too often.

“You’re letting the steam out,” Maya told him.

“I’m checking on it.”

“That’s what the timer is for.”

He put the lid back and set out drinks. Maya changed her shirt after noticing olive oil on the sleeve. While she was in the bedroom, the smoke alarm chirped. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it and opened the kitchen window.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath.

The chicken was slightly dry, but the lemon sauce helped. The rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot, so Daniel served from the top and quietly filled the pot with water before anyone noticed. Maya’s beans, tossed with almonds, disappeared first.

After dinner, they opened the bakery box and found six enormous cupcakes. Conversation drifted from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to a long argument about the best road-trip snacks.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the tulips leaning sideways in their bowl.

“It did,” she agreed. “Next time, we order pizza.”

Daniel handed her a dish towel. “Next time, we use paper plates.”


By five-thirty, Nora had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and hidden it in the bedroom, where it joined two weeks of unopened catalogs on a chair. In the kitchen, Daniel stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“It needs something,” he said.

“It needs time,” Nora replied, carrying in a stack of mismatched plates. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which disagreements mattered. Sauce was not one of them.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Nora vacuumed the living room while Daniel rolled meatballs, pausing to move a lamp so she could reach the corner. When the vacuum cord caught under the couch, he freed it with his foot, his hands still coated in breadcrumbs.

At six-fifteen, Nora changed her shirt after splashing herself while washing lettuce. Daniel discovered they were out of Parmesan and walked to the corner market. He returned with cheese, sparkling water, and a bunch of tulips.

“Those weren’t on the list,” she said, smiling as she found a jar for them.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wrong kitchen drawer looking for a corkscrew, and Daniel directed them to the next one without turning from the stove.

Dinner was crowded but easy. The meatballs were slightly too salty, though no one complained. Nora passed the salad and asked about a friend’s new job. Daniel refilled glasses and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at two in the morning.

After dessert, everyone lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger.

Nora gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. They worked without discussing it, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen.

“That went well,” he said.

Nora looked at the sink full of dishes. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He handed her a tulip that had fallen from the jar, and she tucked it behind her ear before turning on the faucet.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel carried two folding chairs up from the basement. They had been living together in their Columbus apartment for three years, long enough to know which floorboard squeaked and which burner ran hot, but they had never hosted more than one friend at a time.

“Six chairs,” Daniel said, setting the last one beside the table. “Assuming nobody brings a surprise guest.”

Maya looked up. “Don’t say that.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had made a large pot of tomato sauce that afternoon, and Daniel was responsible for salad, garlic bread, and drinks. At six fifteen, he realized he had forgotten sparkling water. He pulled on his jacket and hurried to the corner store while Maya lowered the heat under the sauce and cleared a stack of mail from the sideboard.

By the time Daniel returned, the apartment smelled of garlic and oregano. He put bottles in the refrigerator, then sliced a baguette while Maya changed into a clean shirt. They bumped elbows at the sink, laughed, and traded places without discussing it.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. For the first half hour, everyone stood in the kitchen, even though Daniel kept pointing toward the living room.

Dinner was slightly late. The pasta stuck together, and one end of the garlic bread burned, but nobody seemed concerned. Maya passed bowls around while Daniel refilled glasses and told a story about their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat. Conversation moved from work to rent increases to a movie none of them had finished.

After dessert, they played cards at the crowded table. At ten thirty, the first pair left to catch a bus. The others stayed another hour, helping stack plates before putting on their coats.

When the door finally closed, Maya leaned against it. Daniel surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and sauce-spattered stove.

“Successful?” he asked.

She picked up two plates. “Ask me after we load the dishwasher.”

Together, they returned to the kitchen, tired but pleased, and began making the apartment theirs again.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, onions, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon, while Daniel dragged the vacuum cleaner around the living room.

“Too salty?” she asked.

He switched off the vacuum and crossed the room. “You ask me that every time.”

“And every time you answer.”

Daniel tasted the sauce. “It needs pepper.”

Maya rolled her eyes but added some.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small apartment could hold comfortably. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs from the hall closet and squeezed them around the table. Maya set out mismatched plates, including one with a faded blue rim that had belonged to her grandmother.

At six-fifteen, Daniel realized they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya changed her shirt, burned the first batch of garlic bread, and opened a window to clear the smoke.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled up on the bed. Someone put music on Daniel’s speaker, and soon the apartment filled with overlapping conversations.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Daniel served pasta while Maya passed the salad. When one of the folding chairs wobbled, they slid a coaster under its leg. The sauce splattered onto the tablecloth, and nobody cared.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Daniel divided a chocolate tart into uneven slices. Their friends stayed longer than expected, talking about rent increases, a new job, and a disastrous first date.

By eleven, the last guest had left. Daniel locked the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the tower of plates in the sink. “Mostly.”

They worked side by side, Daniel washing and Maya drying. When they finished, he turned off the kitchen light. The apartment was quiet again, except for the refrigerator humming and the soft scrape of their feet as they carried the folding chairs back to the closet.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“375. Please don’t turn the chicken into charcoal.”

Daniel adjusted the dial and checked the roasting pan. They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of them were folding chairs borrowed from a neighbor.

While Maya mixed dressing for the salad, Daniel cleared mail, keys, and a bicycle light from the table. He set out mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Maya noticed one plate had a chip.

“Give that one to Ben,” she said. “He won’t care.”

At six fifteen, the chicken was still pale. Daniel raised the heat, and Maya texted the group that dinner would be “casually delayed.” Then the smoke alarm went off when butter spilled onto the oven floor. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the windows, laughing despite herself.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, bread, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded into the kitchen, where Daniel sliced bread and Maya finished the salad. Ben opened the wine; Priya found a playlist on her phone.

Dinner was served forty minutes late. The chicken was a little dry at the edges, but the potatoes were crisp, and people took second helpings. Conversation moved from work complaints to rent increases to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer.

After dessert, their friends helped stack dishes before leaving. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel filled the sink with hot water. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

“The smoke alarm added atmosphere.”

He washed while she dried, both tired, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of long practice.


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the chili. They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop offering opinions.

“Those pieces are huge,” Lena said.

“They’ll cook down.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Marcus slid the onions into the pot and turned on the fan. Lena carried the mail to the bedroom, then returned with six mismatched cloth napkins. Their apartment in Columbus was small, with a dining area wedged between the kitchen and living room. They had invited four friends, which meant borrowing two folding chairs from the downstairs neighbor.

While Marcus seasoned the chili, Lena made cornbread. She discovered they were out of milk, so Marcus walked to the corner store. He came back with milk, ice, and a bag of tortilla chips.

“Chips weren’t on the list,” she said.

“They’re insurance.”

By six, the apartment smelled of cumin and butter. Lena lit a candle, then blew it out because it competed with the food. Marcus set out bowls and realized one was chipped. They replaced it with a large coffee mug.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, seltzer, and a supermarket pie. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath. The chili was slightly too spicy, so Lena passed around sour cream while Marcus refilled water glasses. The cornbread stuck to the pan, but he loosened it with a spatula and served the pieces upside down.

After dinner, they moved to the living room and played a card game. Lena kept score; Marcus disputed her arithmetic and lost anyway. By eleven, the guests had gone, leaving damp rings on the table and half a pie.

Marcus began stacking dishes. Lena tied up the trash and opened the window to cool the room.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me after cleanup.”

He handed her a dish towel, and together they started.


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Mark stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the apartment in June.

“Do we own six matching plates?” Mark asked.

“We own four matching plates and three plates with birds on them.”

“Good enough.”

Lena folded a clean dish towel over the oven handle and checked the chicken roasting with lemon and thyme. Mark stirred onions into a pot of rice, then opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“You forgot the parsley.”

“I forgot to buy it,” she corrected. “There’s cilantro.”

“That changes the whole direction.”

“The rice doesn’t have a direction.”

They laughed, and Mark used the cilantro.

By six, the apartment smelled warm and savory. Lena lit two candles and immediately blew one out because it was too close to the curtains. Mark carried recycling downstairs, returning just as the buzzer sounded.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, a bakery pie, and a bag of ice nobody had requested but everyone appreciated. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Lena poured drinks while Mark carved the chicken. He dropped a slice on the floor, picked it up, and quietly put it in the trash.

At dinner, the plates did not match, and one chair squeaked whenever Priya leaned back. Conversation moved from a coworker’s wedding to rising rents to a disastrous camping trip. Mark kept passing the rice, pleased when people took seconds. Lena noticed the chicken was slightly dry, but no one complained.

Afterward, their friends carried dishes to the sink despite Lena’s protests. They ate pie in the living room, balancing plates on their knees.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Mark filled the sink with soapy water while Lena wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” she said.

Mark looked at the crowded counter. “Ask me after the dishes.”

She handed him a plate, and together they began cleaning.


By four o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon cleaner. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping carrots while Daniel carried a stack of old magazines from the coffee table to the bedroom.

“Don’t just hide them,” she called.

“I’m relocating them,” he said, nudging the bedroom door shut with his foot.

They were expecting four friends at seven. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus, and their folding table barely seated six. Daniel unfolded two borrowed chairs and tested each one with his weight. Maya stirred a pot of tomato sauce, tasted it, and frowned.

“Too acidic.”

Daniel came over with a teaspoon. “Sugar?”

“Maybe butter.”

They added both, then agreed it was better.

At six, Maya changed her shirt after splashing sauce on the sleeve. Daniel ran downstairs for ice and returned with a bag leaking onto his jeans. Together they set the table with mismatched plates, cloth napkins Maya’s mother had given them, and water glasses from a restaurant supply store.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, bread, and a supermarket bouquet. Coats piled on the bed despite Maya’s earlier objections. Daniel opened bottles while Maya finished the pasta, and everyone crowded into the kitchen, talking over the hiss of boiling water.

At dinner, one borrowed chair creaked alarmingly, but held. The pasta clumped slightly, and Maya apologized until her friend Lena asked for seconds. Daniel told the story of the smoke alarm going off during their first attempt at roasting chicken. Maya corrected three details, and the table broke into laughter.

After dessert—store-bought pie warmed in the oven—the guests stayed later than expected. When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator.

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya filled the sink with hot water.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter, the stained tablecloth, and the empty serving bowl.

“It did.”

They washed the dishes together, passing each plate from soapy water to towel, too tired to hurry.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled like onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant Claire kept forgetting to water. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, while Marcus unfolded the dining table from its usual position against the wall.

“It seats six if nobody needs elbows,” he said.

“We invited four people.”

“I’m counting us.”

Claire tasted the sauce and handed him the spoon. Marcus added salt, then carried a stack of mismatched plates from the cupboard. They had lived together for two years but still owned only three matching ones.

Their friends were due at seven. Marcus vacuumed while Claire shaped meatballs, and they traded complaints about the vacuum cord getting caught under the sofa. At six fifteen, Claire realized they had forgotten ice. Marcus put on his jacket and walked to the corner store, returning with two bags, sparkling water, and a bunch of yellow tulips.

“For the table,” he said, trimming the stems with kitchen scissors.

The first knock came at seven-oh-five. Lena and Paul brought wine; Jasmine and Theo arrived ten minutes later with a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed, and everyone crowded into the kitchen despite Claire’s repeated invitations to sit down.

Marcus poured drinks and kept the conversation moving while Claire drained the pasta. When one meatball rolled off the serving platter, he caught it against his shirt, leaving a red streak. Everyone laughed, including him.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. Paul told a story about his new manager, Jasmine asked for the sauce recipe, and Theo accidentally knocked over his water. Marcus fetched a towel before the spill reached the rug. Claire passed around more bread.

After dessert, their friends stayed longer than expected. By eleven, the apartment had gone quiet again. Claire stacked plates while Marcus filled the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“You have sauce on your shirt.”

“I know.”

She leaned against him for a moment, tired and pleased. Then they turned on the faucet and began washing dishes together.


By five-thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and hidden the recycling bin in the laundry closet. Marcus stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while reading the recipe on his phone.

“It says simmer for forty-five minutes,” he said.

“It said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I forgot to start the timer.”

Lena laughed and set four mismatched plates around the dining table. She and Marcus had lived in the apartment outside Minneapolis for two years, long enough to accumulate good wineglasses but not a complete set of dishes. Tonight, their friends Tasha and Ben were coming over, the first guests they had invited since winter.

Marcus tasted the sauce and added salt. Lena sliced a loaf of bread, brushed the pieces with olive oil, and arranged them on a baking sheet. They moved around each other easily, though twice Marcus opened a drawer just as Lena reached for it.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Tasha arrived carrying a bottle of red wine, with Ben behind her holding a grocery-store cake.

“We didn’t know what kind you liked,” Ben said, “so we picked chocolate.”

“Correct choice,” Marcus told him.

While Lena poured wine, Marcus drained the pasta. Steam clouded his glasses, and Tasha teased him as he wiped them on his shirt. They ate at the small table with their knees nearly touching. The sauce was slightly too salty, but no one complained. Ben told a story about getting locked out of his office, and Lena described the neighbor’s cat that had begun waiting outside their door each morning.

After dinner, Marcus made coffee while Lena cut the cake. Tasha helped stack plates, despite Lena’s protests. By ten, their friends had put on their coats and promised to host next time.

When the door closed, the apartment seemed suddenly quiet. Marcus filled the sink with hot water. Lena wrapped the leftover cake.

“That went well,” she said.

He handed her a dish towel. “Even with the sauce?”

“Especially with the sauce.”

They cleaned the kitchen together, leaving the plates to dry overnight.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel knelt in front of the oven, trying to read the faded numbers on the dial.

“Is that three-seventy-five?” he asked.

“It’s either that or four-fifty,” Maya said. “Turn it left a little.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without borrowing chairs. Daniel had spent the afternoon clearing mail from the dining table and carrying two folding chairs up from the basement. Maya had made a grocery run, returning with chicken thighs, potatoes, salad greens, and a bottle of wine that had been on sale.

At six, Daniel set the table with mismatched plates. Maya noticed he had forgotten napkins and folded paper towels into triangles. They both laughed, then stopped when the smoke alarm chirped. A little olive oil had spilled onto the oven floor. Daniel opened a window while Maya waved a dish towel beneath the alarm.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing bread, beer, and a bakery box of cupcakes. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Maya stirred the potatoes and asked everyone to stay out of the narrow doorway. Daniel opened bottles and introduced two friends who had never met.

Dinner was fifteen minutes late, but no one seemed bothered. The chicken was crisp at the edges, the salad slightly overdressed. Conversation moved from rent increases to a coworker’s wedding, then to whether anyone still watched cable television.

After dessert, one friend helped collect plates while another found music on Daniel’s phone. Near ten, the last guests left, promising to host next time.

Maya leaned against the closed door. Daniel surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and stack of dishes.

“That went well,” he said.

“It did,” she agreed, gathering forks.

He filled the sink with hot water. She wrapped the leftover chicken. They worked side by side, tired but pleased, while traffic hissed on the wet street below.


By five-thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter while Marcus stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce and reading the recipe from his phone.

“It says simmer for forty minutes,” he said.

“It said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I restarted the timer after I added the wine.”

Lena shook her head and carried a stack of unopened envelopes to the bedroom. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that hosting six people required strategy. She folded the drying rack, moved two houseplants onto the windowsill, and pulled the extra chairs from the hall closet. One chair wobbled, so Marcus found a screwdriver and tightened it while the sauce bubbled.

They had been living together for two years, but they still disagreed about dinner music. Lena chose a quiet playlist. Marcus replaced it with something louder. They compromised by turning his down.

At six-fifteen, Lena changed her shirt after splashing salad dressing on the first one. Marcus tasted the sauce, added salt, then worried he had added too much. She handed him a piece of bread.

“It’s fine,” she said after tasting it. “Stop touching it.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing flowers, beer, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Lena poured drinks while Marcus drained pasta. When the colander slipped, several noodles landed in the sink, but nobody saw except Lena. She raised her eyebrows; he quietly scooped them into the trash.

Dinner was crowded and warm. Everyone passed bowls over elbows and argued about a new bike lane downtown. Marcus told a story Lena had heard before, but he added a detail that made her laugh. Later, she served cookies on mismatched plates while he made coffee.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. The apartment looked larger again, though every surface held a glass or crumb. Lena filled the sink. Marcus wrapped the leftover pasta.

“Successful?” he asked.

She leaned against him, tired. “No one broke the chair.”

He glanced toward it. “That’s because I fixed it.”

Together, they began washing dishes.


At four on Saturday, Maya cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Ben stood at the stove, reading the same soup recipe for the third time.

“It says simmer, not boil,” Maya said, passing behind him with a handful of envelopes.

“I’m aware,” Ben replied, lowering the burner. “I’m establishing momentum.”

They had invited four friends to their apartment in Columbus: Lena and Chris from Maya’s office, and Devon and Priya, who lived downstairs. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving in together eight months earlier. Their mismatched chairs had been gathered around a table meant for two.

Maya set out plates and noticed a film of dust on the wineglasses. Ben washed them while she chopped parsley. When the smoke alarm chirped because the bread had burned at one edge, they opened the kitchen window and waved a dish towel beneath it, laughing until Ben dropped the towel into the sink.

Their guests arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Devon asked if anything needed doing, so Maya handed him a bottle opener. Priya helped Ben spoon soup into bowls while Lena examined the leaning bookshelf and declared it “architecturally brave.”

Dinner was crowded but easy. The soup was slightly too salty, and the roasted vegetables cooled before everyone sat down, but nobody seemed to mind. Chris told a story about getting locked out of his car at a gas station. Priya described the stray cat she had been feeding behind the building. Ben got up twice for more napkins; Maya refilled water glasses and brought out the pie their friends had brought.

By eleven, the guests had gone. The apartment smelled of onions, coffee, and damp winter coats.

Maya stacked plates beside the sink. Ben wrapped the remaining bread in foil.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crowded counter and the ring of wine on the table.

“Very,” she said.

They washed the dishes together, Ben scrubbing and Maya drying, while the radiator clicked in the quiet apartment.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing lemons while Ben crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken was browning or burning.

“Browning,” Maya said without looking up.

“You can’t see it.”

“I can smell your panic.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their new apartment outside Columbus. The place was small, with a narrow galley kitchen and a dining table they had bought used online. One chair still wobbled despite Ben’s folded-cardboard solution.

Maya whisked dressing for the salad while Ben carried coats and unopened mail from the living room into their bedroom. They worked around each other with practiced sidesteps. When the doorbell rang, Maya was lighting candles and Ben was searching for the bottle opener.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, a grocery-store pie, and too many flowers for the only vase. Ben put half the flowers in a water pitcher. Maya took everyone’s coats and warned them about the wobbly chair.

Dinner was ready twenty minutes late. The chicken had browned more on one side, and Maya realized she had forgotten to add salt to the potatoes. Still, people passed plates, asked for seconds, and laughed when Ben described setting off the smoke alarm during their first week in the apartment.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Ben cleared the table. Their friends squeezed together on the couch and argued cheerfully about which movie to watch. No one chose one. They kept talking instead.

By eleven, the guests had gone. The apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher and traffic on the wet street below. Ben stacked leftover chicken into a plastic container. Maya wrapped the remaining pie.

“That went well,” he said.

“The chair survived.”

“Barely.”

They stood together in the messy kitchen, tired and pleased. Maya handed him a dish towel, and they began drying the wineglasses.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions, lemon, and the bread Daniel had nearly forgotten in the oven.

“It’s not burned,” he said, holding up the loaf.

Maya looked over from the stove. “It’s wearing a dark jacket.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their narrow dining area could hold without borrowing chairs from the downstairs neighbor. Daniel sliced the bread while Maya stirred a pot of chicken stew, tasting it twice before adding salt. He set the table with mismatched plates they had collected over three years of living together. She folded paper napkins and wedged a grocery-store bouquet into a glass pitcher.

At six-fifteen, Daniel noticed the bathroom trash was full. Maya noticed he had left his shoes beside the couch. They moved through the apartment in quick, practiced loops—emptying, straightening, wiping fingerprints from the bathroom mirror. When the buzzer sounded, both froze.

“They’re early,” Maya said.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel opened bottles and found everyone glasses while Maya ladled stew into a serving bowl. When she realized she had forgotten the parsley, he chopped it while she brought the food out.

Dinner was crowded and warm. Someone knocked over a glass, but only water spilled. They talked about a delayed flight, a new supervisor, rent increases, and a dog one couple was considering adopting. Daniel passed bread and told a story Maya had heard before; she corrected one detail, and he laughed.

After dessert, their friends lingered near the door, promising to host next time. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya filled the sink with hot water. Daniel stacked leftovers into containers and labeled one for lunch.

“That went well,” he said.

She handed him a dish towel. “Even the bread.”

He tore off a dark corner, tasted it, and nodded. Together they cleaned the kitchen, stepping around each other without needing to ask.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Is it still wobbling?” she asked.

Daniel sat down experimentally. The chair tilted.

“It has character,” he said.

“It’s going to injure Ben.”

“Ben also has character.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had planned roasted chicken, potatoes, and a salad. Daniel was responsible for dessert and the apartment. So far, he had bought a bakery pie, hidden two laundry baskets in the bedroom, and moved a stack of unopened mail from the coffee table to the top of the refrigerator.

At six, Maya discovered they were out of butter. Daniel pulled on his sneakers and hurried to the corner store while she seasoned the chicken. He returned with butter, sparkling water, and flowers wrapped in plastic.

“Those weren’t on the list,” she said.

“They were near the register.”

She found a jar for them and set it in the center of the table.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine and a loaf of bread. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya checked the potatoes, which were browning faster than expected. When the smoke alarm chirped, everyone laughed, and Ben waved a dish towel beneath it.

Dinner was crowded but warm. The repaired chair held. They talked about a coworker’s wedding, rising rent, and whether anyone actually enjoyed running. Daniel carved the chicken unevenly, handing Maya the crispest piece without comment. She refilled his water when she noticed his glass was empty.

After pie, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. At the door, there were hugs and promises to do it again soon.

When the apartment was quiet, Maya surveyed the plates and glasses.

“Tomorrow?” Daniel suggested.

She shook her head and turned on the faucet. “Ten minutes now.”

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and began scraping plates while she washed. The flowers leaned slightly toward the stove, and the crooked chair stood firm beside the table.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter zesting a lemon over a bowl of ricotta while Ben crouched in front of the oven, watching the blue flame catch.

“It always takes three tries,” he said.

“It takes three tries because you let go of the knob.”

Ben tried again. The flame held. He closed the oven door and set the timer on his phone.

They had invited four friends, the most their small dining table could handle. Maya had spent the morning planning a menu—roast chicken, potatoes, salad, and a ricotta cake—while Ben had gone to the grocery store with a list and returned without parsley but with two kinds of olives.

“People like olives,” he’d said.

Now he poured them into mismatched bowls and carried recycling down to the basement. Maya seasoned the chicken, then cleared a stack of mail from the table. When Ben came back, they unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the neighbor across the hall.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread still warm from the bakery. Coats piled on the bed. Ben opened bottles while Maya found a jar for the flowers. In the kitchen, everyone talked at once, and someone’s elbow knocked a spoon onto the floor.

The chicken took twenty minutes longer than expected. Ben sliced bread and set out the olives. Maya lowered the oven temperature and tried not to look worried.

“It’s dinner, not a launch,” he whispered.

When they finally sat, the potatoes were crisp, the chicken was done, and the salad had slightly too much vinegar. Nobody complained. They passed plates, compared rent increases, and argued cheerfully about a movie.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door closed behind the last guest, Maya leaned against it.

“That went well,” she said.

Ben surveyed the glasses and greasy plates. “Absolutely.”

They worked side by side at the sink, her washing and him drying, while the apartment slowly became quiet again.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant that Maya had clipped nearly bare. She stood at the kitchen counter, zesting a lemon over a bowl of ricotta, while Daniel dragged the vacuum from the hall closet.

“Don’t vacuum around the table yet,” she said. “I dropped parsley everywhere.”

“I noticed,” Daniel said, picking a leaf from his sock.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had planned baked pasta, salad, and garlic bread. Daniel was responsible for drinks, music, and making the living room look less like a place where two people dropped their mail and shoes.

He stacked magazines beneath the coffee table, carried empty mugs to the sink, and moved a basket of clean laundry into the bedroom. Maya stirred tomato sauce and asked him to taste it. He added salt; she added pepper. Neither mentioned that they had debated ordering pizza that morning.

At six thirty, Daniel realized they had no ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya changed her shirt, then returned with two bags of ice and a bunch of tulips.

“For the table,” he said.

“They’re slightly crushed.”

“They had a difficult journey.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, cookies, and a small potted cactus. Coats collected on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and introduced two guests who had never met. Maya pulled the pasta from the oven, and everyone crowded into the kitchen despite her requests to sit down.

Dinner was noisy and warm. Someone spilled water; Daniel fetched a towel. Maya forgot the garlic bread until its edges were dark, but they ate it anyway. Afterward, Daniel made coffee while Maya divided the cookies onto plates.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. They stood together at the sink, passing dishes back and forth.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the crowded drying rack and the crumbs under the table. “It did.”

They left the last pan soaking, turned off the kitchen light, and carried the tulips into the bedroom.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and wet wool. Rain tapped the kitchen window while Daniel stood at the counter chopping parsley. His girlfriend, Mara, carried a stack of mail from the table to the bedroom, then returned with four mismatched cloth napkins.

“Do these look intentional?” she asked.

“They look clean,” Daniel said. “That’s close enough.”

They had invited two friends, Priya and Ben, for dinner—small enough that nobody needed to bring folding chairs, but large enough to make Mara notice every dusty baseboard. While Daniel stirred tomato sauce, she wiped the bathroom sink and replaced the nearly empty roll of toilet paper.

At six-fifteen, Daniel tasted the sauce and frowned. Mara dipped in a spoon.

“Salt,” she said.

“I already salted it.”

“Then more salt.”

He added a pinch. She opened the wine and set out the glasses they had collected from different thrift stores. One had a tiny blue flower painted on it; another was heavier than the rest.

Priya and Ben arrived at seven with a paper bag from a bakery and damp shoulders. Daniel took their coats while Mara found a vase for the tulips Priya had brought. The vase was actually a glass pitcher, but the flowers leaned attractively against its rim.

Dinner was spaghetti, salad, and bread Daniel had nearly burned while telling a story. Mara scraped the darkest pieces into the trash before bringing the basket to the table. They talked about a difficult manager at Priya’s office, Ben’s noisy upstairs neighbor, and the rent increase notice Mara and Daniel had received that morning.

Afterward, Ben dried dishes while Daniel washed. Priya and Mara divided the leftover cake into uneven slices. When the guests finally left, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

Mara locked the door. Daniel held up the last piece of cake.

“Tomorrow?”

She found two forks.

“Now,” she said.

They ate it standing at the kitchen counter, too tired to clear the table, listening to the rain and the refrigerator hum.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Nina stood at the counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, squinting at the thermometer.

“It says three-fifty,” he said.

“The dial says four hundred.”

“That explains the aggressive bread.”

He pulled out the loaf before it burned. Nina laughed and slid the parsley into a bowl of lemon zest and olive oil. They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their narrow table could hold if they added the folding chair from the bedroom.

Marcus set the table while Nina checked the chicken. They moved around each other in the small kitchen with practiced turns: she opened a drawer as he stepped aside; he reached over her for salt; she wiped a streak of flour from his shirt.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Marcus poured drinks and introduced Leah, his coworker, to Nina’s old college roommate. Nina took the chicken from the oven and asked everyone to ignore the smoke alarm if it went off.

It did.

Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while the guests laughed and Nina opened the window. Cold November air rushed in, but the chicken was fine.

At dinner, they passed bowls carefully over elbows. Conversation moved from rent increases to a new movie to Leah’s disastrous attempt at cutting her own bangs. Marcus refilled water glasses. Nina brought out the pie, and together they found seven mismatched candles in a junk drawer, though it was no one’s birthday.

After the last guests left, the apartment looked smaller and messier than before. Nina gathered plates while Marcus wrapped leftover chicken.

“Good dinner,” he said.

“Good smoke alarm performance.”

They stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying. From the bedroom came the faint smell of everyone’s damp coats. Marcus put on music, and Nina leaned against him for a moment before handing him another plate.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded numbers on the dial.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

Maya leaned over. “Neither. You’ve got it on broil.”

Daniel swore softly and turned the knob. They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. That morning, Daniel had tightened its loose leg with a borrowed wrench while Maya washed the mismatched wineglasses they had collected over the years.

The chicken went into the oven late. Maya tasted the salad dressing and added salt. Daniel cleared mail from the kitchen counter and carried two folding chairs up from the basement. When the buzzer sounded, they looked at each other.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” Maya said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Open the door.”

Their friends arrived with wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread nobody had requested but everyone ate. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and kept conversation moving while Maya finished the potatoes. When smoke began curling from the oven, both of them rushed into the kitchen. The chicken skin had blackened at the edges, but the meat was fine.

“We’ll call it caramelized,” Daniel said.

At dinner, knees bumped beneath the small table. Someone spilled water, and Maya fetched a dish towel while Daniel lifted the dripping plates. The food was not served at the same temperature, and they ran out of clean forks before dessert, but nobody seemed to mind.

After the guests left, the apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher. Maya gathered empty bottles. Daniel wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the crumbs under the table. “It did.”

They turned off the kitchen light and left the rest for morning.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the faintly scorched dish towel Ben had left too close to the burner.

“It’s fine,” he said, holding up the towel.

Maya took it from him and dropped it into the sink. “It has a hole.”

“A small, decorative hole.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, which was two more people than their secondhand table could comfortably seat. While Ben stirred a pot of tomato sauce, Maya unfolded a card table borrowed from their downstairs neighbor. One leg refused to lock. She crouched, pressed the hinge with both thumbs, and finally heard it snap into place.

They covered the mismatched tables with a blue sheet and set out plates collected from thrift stores and former roommates. Ben tasted the sauce, added salt, then tasted it again. Maya arranged grocery-store flowers in an empty pasta jar.

At six-fifteen, their first guest texted that she was running late. At six-twenty, everyone else arrived at once, carrying wine, seltzer, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full of camping gear and a vacuum cleaner.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Ben served baked ziti while Maya passed salad and warned everyone that the table wobbled. Their friend Luis told a long story about getting locked out of his office. Priya spilled water, and Ben handed her the scorched towel before remembering the hole. Water dripped through onto his sock, which made everyone laugh.

After dessert, the guests lingered in the living room, balancing coffee mugs on their knees. Maya put on music quietly. Ben packed leftovers into reused takeout containers and insisted everyone take some.

By eleven, the apartment was empty again. Maya gathered glasses while Ben scraped plates into the trash.

“That went well,” he said.

“The table survived.”

“So did the towel.”

She held it up by one corner. The hole had widened.

Ben filled the sink with hot, soapy water. Maya stood beside him, drying each plate as he washed, while the refrigerator hummed and traffic moved softly on the street below.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the candle Maya had lit to cover the fact that she’d burned the first batch of breadcrumbs.

“It’s not burned,” she said, scraping the blackened crumbs into the trash. “It’s deeply toasted.”

Evan opened the window above the sink. “Deeply toasted enough to set off the alarm.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. Maya was making baked pasta and salad; Evan had volunteered for garlic bread, drinks, and cleaning the bathroom.

At six, Maya found him arranging beer bottles in the refrigerator by height.

“The toilet still has cleaner in it,” she said.

“I’m creating space.”

“You’re avoiding the toilet.”

He sighed and took the brush down the hall.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Evan grated cheese while Maya layered pasta into a chipped casserole dish. She tasted the sauce, frowned, and handed him the spoon.

“Salt,” he said.

“I already added salt.”

“Then pepper.”

She added both.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full. Evan poured drinks while Maya pulled the casserole from the oven. When the garlic bread emerged too dark at the edges, he cut off the worst parts and arranged the rest in a basket.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Someone spilled wine, and both Maya and Evan reached for towels. The salad bowl made an awkward circuit around the table. Everyone praised the pasta, though Maya thought it needed more sauce.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

Evan began stacking plates. Maya leaned against the counter, tired.

“That went well,” he said.

“You burned the bread.”

“You burned the breadcrumbs.”

She smiled and handed him a dish towel. Together, they started cleaning.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the butter he insisted he had bought.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“It’s never in the door.”

“It is tonight.”

He found it beside the mustard and held it up without comment. Maya smiled and swept the parsley into a bowl of lemon zest and breadcrumbs. They had invited four friends to their apartment in Columbus, Ohio, for dinner, their first attempt at hosting since moving in together six months earlier.

Daniel set the table with mismatched plates and the cloth napkins Maya’s mother had given them. When he noticed one chair wobbling, he folded a piece of junk mail and wedged it under the short leg. Meanwhile, Maya checked the chicken in the oven and lowered the temperature. The skin was browning faster than the recipe promised.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the entryway closet was full of camping gear. Daniel poured drinks and introduced Priya, his coworker, to Maya’s college friend Tessa. Maya finished the salad while answering questions about the apartment.

At dinner, the chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes were crisp and everyone asked for seconds. Conversation moved from rent increases to bad first jobs, then to a debate about whether anyone actually enjoyed running. Daniel told the story of Maya accidentally joining an advanced yoga class; she corrected every exaggerated detail.

After dessert, one friend washed dishes despite their protests. Daniel packed leftovers into old takeout containers, and Maya wrapped the remaining cake.

When the door finally closed behind the last guest, the apartment seemed abruptly quiet. There were wine rings on the coffee table and crumbs under nearly every chair.

“That went well,” Daniel said, stacking glasses.

Maya leaned against the counter. “The smoke alarm only went off once.”

“Before anyone arrived.”

“Exactly. Professional timing.”

They cleaned for another fifteen minutes, then left the roasting pan soaking in the sink. Too tired to sit properly, they settled side by side on the kitchen floor and shared the last uneven slice of cake with two forks.


At four on Saturday, Maya cleared unopened mail from the kitchen counter while Ben carried the folding table up from the basement. They had lived together for three years, long enough to own eight dinner plates but not long enough to agree on where the extra chairs belonged.

“Garage,” Maya said, sliding a utility bill into a drawer.

“Basement,” Ben replied, unfolding the table beside the window.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had planned roasted chicken, salad, and potatoes. Ben was responsible for appetizers and dessert, which meant he returned from the grocery store with two kinds of cheese, olives, crackers, and a bakery pie he insisted looked homemade.

“It has a plastic dome,” Maya said.

“We’ll remove the evidence.”

While the chicken cooked, Ben vacuumed the living room and moved a stack of shoes away from the front door. Maya chopped parsley, then discovered they were out of lemons. Ben offered to run to the corner market, but she checked the refrigerator again and found one behind a jar of pickles.

At six-thirty, the smoke alarm went off when butter spilled onto the oven floor. Ben waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the back door. Cold November air filled the kitchen.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a potted herb. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded around the kitchen island, eating cheese while Maya finished the gravy and Ben refilled glasses.

Dinner was slightly late. One tray of potatoes was crisp; the other was soft. Nobody complained. They talked about work, rent increases, a neighbor’s noisy dog, and whether anyone still watched cable television. Ben cut the pie into uneven slices, giving the largest to Maya.

By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again. Maya wrapped leftover chicken while Ben loaded the dishwasher incorrectly, according to her.

“You hosted well,” he said, moving a bowl to satisfy her.

“So did you.”

They left the folding table up until morning and ate the last two bites of pie standing at the counter.


By five-thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and set six mismatched plates on the dining table. She and Marcus had lived in the apartment for three years, but hosting still made the place feel temporarily unfamiliar.

“Do we own six forks?” she called.

Marcus opened the silverware drawer and counted. “We own five forks and one tiny fork.”

“The tiny fork is for olives.”

“Tonight it’s for pasta.”

He was making tomato sauce, stirring onions in the heavy pot his mother had given them. Lena sliced bread, brushed it with oil, and checked the salad greens. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced turns: Marcus stepped aside for the refrigerator; Lena ducked under his arm to reach the salt.

Their friends arrived in pairs. Nina and Joel brought wine. Sam, who lived downstairs, carried up a bowl of roasted vegetables covered with foil. Coats accumulated on the bed, and the apartment quickly grew warm.

Marcus drained the pasta while Lena lit two candles. One leaned crookedly in its holder, so she wedged a folded piece of paper beside it. At the table, Joel received the tiny fork and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s ceremonial,” Marcus said.

Conversation moved from a delayed train to a new manager at Nina’s office, then to whether the neighborhood grocery store had changed its music. Halfway through dinner, Lena realized she had forgotten the bread in the oven. The edges were black.

Marcus scraped off the worst parts over the sink. “Rustic,” he announced, returning with the basket.

After dessert—store-bought cookies and the last of the wine—the guests helped stack plates. Sam took the recycling downstairs. Nina wiped the table despite Lena’s protests.

When the door finally closed, the apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher. Marcus found the tiny fork under Joel’s napkin and held it up.

“Successful evening,” he said.

Lena looked at the crowded sink, the wax on the tablecloth, and the empty serving bowl.

“Definitely,” she said, and handed him a towel.


At four on Saturday, Lena stood in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Marcus, reading the same recipe for roasted chicken for the third time. The chicken was already in the oven, but the instructions had made “golden brown” sound more precise than it was.

Marcus came in carrying two folding chairs borrowed from their neighbor.

“Mrs. Alvarez says don’t let anyone lean back,” he said.

Lena glanced at the chairs. “That seems important.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Their dining table seated four comfortably, six if everyone accepted that knees would touch. Marcus extended it with the leaf they stored under the bed, then wiped off a streak of dust with his sleeve.

While Lena chopped parsley for the potatoes, Marcus set mismatched plates around the table. They had only five wineglasses, so he added a blue tumbler at his own place. He lit a candle, decided it smelled too strongly of vanilla, and blew it out.

At six fifteen, the smoke alarm sounded. Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while Lena opened the oven and discovered butter dripping onto the bottom rack. They laughed after the alarm stopped, though Lena’s face remained tight.

“The chicken’s fine,” Marcus said, peering into the pan.

“You can’t know that.”

“I believe in it.”

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box of lemon cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put music on Marcus’s speaker, and the apartment quickly felt warmer and smaller.

At dinner, the potatoes were excellent, the green beans slightly cold, and the chicken fully cooked. Marcus told the smoke-alarm story with enough exaggeration to make Lena protest. She reached under the table and squeezed his knee.

After everyone left, they stood among empty glasses and crumpled napkins. It was nearly midnight.

“Do we clean now?” Marcus asked.

Lena stacked two plates, considered the sink, and set them back down.

“Tomorrow.”

They turned off the lights, leaving the borrowed chairs unfolded by the table and the flowers in a water pitcher on the counter.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while checking the time on the microwave.

“Can you taste this?” she asked.

Ethan came in carrying two folding chairs from the bedroom closet. He dipped a spoon into the sauce, blew on it, and nodded. “Salt.”

“You always say salt.”

“Because you always ask before adding enough.”

She gave him a look but added a pinch.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Their dining table, bought secondhand when they moved in together, normally held mail, Ethan’s laptop, and a bowl of keys. He cleared it while Maya shaped meatballs. Then they worked side by side: he washed lettuce and opened wine; she sliced bread and found candles in the junk drawer.

At six-forty, Ethan noticed they had forgotten ice. He ran to the convenience store downstairs while Maya changed her shirt and hid a stack of unopened mail in the bedroom.

The first knock came at seven-ten. Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying a bottle of red wine and a bakery box. Coats accumulated on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker in the living room, and conversation quickly filled the apartment.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. One folding chair wobbled, so Ethan slid a folded napkin under its leg. Maya passed the pasta and apologized for the meatballs being slightly dry. Everyone disagreed and took seconds.

Later, they ate chocolate cake from mismatched plates. A neighbor thumped once on the wall when the laughter grew loud, and Ethan lowered the music.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Maya gathered glasses while Ethan wrapped leftovers in foil. They stood together at the sink, tired and quiet.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the sauce splattered on the stove and the crumbs under the table. “It did.”

He handed her a clean plate to dry. Outside, traffic moved steadily along the wet street, and inside, they began putting their apartment back together.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 475?” he asked.

“If it’s 475, we’re ordering pizza.”

Daniel adjusted the dial and slid in the chicken. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they’d hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee. Their dining table seated four, so Daniel had borrowed two folding chairs from the downstairs neighbor. Maya covered the mismatched seats with dish towels, then decided that looked worse and removed them.

While she mixed salad dressing, Daniel cleared unopened mail from the counter and carried a stack of shoes into the bedroom. They disagreed briefly about whether the overhead light was too bright. Maya won, and Daniel switched on two lamps instead.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store cake with “Congratulations” written across it.

“For what?” Maya asked.

“Your new place,” said Lena. “And because that was the only chocolate one left.”

Dinner started twenty minutes late. The chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes were crisp, and everyone asked for more salad. Daniel kept water glasses filled and told the story of how their couch had become stuck in the stairwell on moving day. Maya corrected his exaggerations from the kitchen as she warmed extra bread.

Afterward, they crowded around the coffee table for cake. Someone put on music, and the conversation shifted from work complaints to summer plans. At ten, the downstairs neighbor knocked. Daniel apologized for the noise, then offered him a slice of cake. He accepted.

When the last guests left, Maya gathered plates while Daniel wrapped leftovers. The apartment looked smaller than before, cluttered with glasses and crumbs.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya leaned against the counter. “You nearly roasted the chicken at 475.”

“But I didn’t.”

They washed the dishes together, passing plates back and forth in the quiet kitchen.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Ethan crouched beside the oven, trying to read the faded numbers on the temperature dial.

“Is that 375?” he asked.

“It’s close enough,” she said. “The landlord calls it a vintage appliance.”

“He calls everything vintage.”

They had invited four friends to dinner, the largest gathering their apartment could comfortably hold. Ethan slid a tray of vegetables into the oven, then carried two folding chairs up from the basement. Maya cleared unopened mail from the dining table and tucked it into a drawer already crowded with batteries, takeout menus, and spare keys.

At six-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and roasted onions. Ethan set out mismatched plates while Maya stirred a pot of tomato sauce. She tasted it, added salt, and handed him the spoon.

“More pepper,” he said.

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store cheesecake. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker by the window, and quiet music filled the room.

During dinner, the folding table wobbled whenever anyone leaned on it. Ethan fixed it with a folded coaster while Maya passed bowls of pasta and vegetables. Conversation moved from work complaints to neighborhood construction to a friend’s upcoming move. When the smoke alarm chirped, Maya waved a dish towel beneath it and Ethan opened the window, letting in cold November air.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the kitchen but left before the washing began. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya washed while Ethan dried. They stacked leftovers into containers and found room for them in the refrigerator.

“That went well,” Ethan said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink, the stained tablecloth, and the empty wine bottles.

“It did,” she said. “Next time, we order pizza.”

He nodded. “On paper plates.”

They turned off the kitchen light and left the last pan soaking.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel carried folding chairs up from the basement. They had lived together for three years in a narrow row house outside Baltimore, but this was the first dinner they had hosted since repainting the dining room.

“Six chairs,” Maya called as Daniel squeezed through the doorway.

“I counted six people.”

“Six guests. Eight people total.”

Daniel stopped, then turned back toward the basement. “Right.”

They had divided the work that morning. Maya made a pot of tomato-braised chicken and a salad; Daniel bought wine, cleaned the bathroom, and attempted a chocolate cake. The cake had sunk in the middle, so he filled the hollow with whipped cream and strawberries.

“Looks intentional,” Maya said.

“That’s the spirit.”

At six-thirty, the chicken was bubbling gently, and Daniel was still trying to remove a price sticker from a new serving bowl. Maya changed her shirt after splashing it with dressing. The doorbell rang while she was upstairs.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying flowers, beer, and a loaf of sourdough. Daniel took coats and found jars for the flowers. Maya passed around olives and apologized for the crowded kitchen, though everyone gathered there anyway.

During dinner, the table wobbled until Daniel slid a folded grocery receipt under one leg. Conversation moved from a coworker’s strange resignation email to rising rent and a neighbor’s runaway beagle. Maya served seconds. Daniel refilled water glasses and nearly dropped the salad tongs.

When he brought out the cake, everyone laughed at the mountain of strawberries.

“It’s a design choice,” he said.

After the guests left, the house seemed abruptly quiet. Maya stacked plates while Daniel wrapped leftover chicken. They were tired, and the sink was full, but neither suggested leaving it all until morning.

“That went well,” Daniel said, handing her a rinsed glass.

Maya looked at the crooked chairs and candle wax on the tablecloth. “Next time, we order pizza.”

“Next time,” he agreed, “I’m making a taller cake.”


On Saturday afternoon, Elena stood at the kitchen counter in the small house she shared with Marcus outside Columbus, Ohio, slicing peppers for fajitas. Rain tapped against the window above the sink, and the weather app warned of thunderstorms by evening.

“Did you get ice?” she asked.

Marcus stopped halfway through setting the dining table. “I got limes. I got sparkling water. I forgot ice.”

Elena glanced at the clock. Their friends were due in forty minutes. “We can make some.”

“With six ice cubes?”

She laughed and handed him her car keys. “Convenience store. And check the porch when you come back. The wind knocked over that planter again.”

While he was gone, Elena seasoned the chicken and warmed tortillas in foil. She had worried that hosting eight people would feel cramped, but Marcus had moved the coffee table against the wall and borrowed two folding chairs from their neighbor. The living room looked casual rather than crowded, which was exactly what she wanted.

Marcus returned ten minutes later carrying two bags of ice and a dripping planter. He set the plant upright beside the front door, then changed out of his wet sweatshirt.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Music, please. Not your running playlist.”

He pretended to look offended but chose a quiet soul station. Then he filled a cooler, arranged bottles inside, and tasted the salsa.

“Needs salt,” he said.

“It does not.”

He added a tiny pinch anyway. Elena tasted it again and reluctantly nodded.

At six, the house smelled of toasted cumin and onions. Marcus lit the candles on the table while Elena carried out bowls of guacamole, cheese, and chopped cilantro. They surveyed the room together: mismatched chairs, clean plates, rain-dark windows, and enough food for twice the number coming.

The doorbell rang.

Marcus reached for the handle as Elena wiped her hands on a towel. Their first guests stood on the porch, shaking rain from their coats and holding a bakery box.

“Perfect timing,” Elena said, stepping aside to welcome them in.


Maya checked the oven clock: 6:12. Their friends were due at seven, and the chicken still looked pale.

“Is it supposed to be doing that?” she asked.

Eli leaned over her shoulder. “Cooking slowly? I think that’s normal.”

They had lived together for eight months, long enough to divide most household tasks without discussion. Maya handled meals because she liked improvising; Eli cleaned because he found order calming. Tonight, though, they kept drifting into each other’s territory. Maya wiped fingerprints from the refrigerator while Eli stood at the counter, chopping parsley with unnecessary concentration.

Their rented bungalow in Columbus was small, and six guests would make the dining room feel crowded. Eli had borrowed two folding chairs from the couple next door. He opened one to test it, sat down, and bounced lightly.

“Please don’t break it before anyone gets here,” Maya said.

“I’m checking its structural integrity.”

She laughed and carried a bowl of salad to the table. Outside, a city bus sighed at the corner. The November sky had gone dark, and the porch light revealed wet leaves along the front walk.

Eli put on music, then lowered it when Maya gave him a look. Together they set out mismatched plates—four from her old apartment, four from his—and the cloth napkins Maya had bought that afternoon because paper towels suddenly seemed embarrassing.

At 6:45, the smoke alarm chirped. Maya froze. Eli grabbed a dish towel and waved it beneath the detector while she rescued the bread from the oven. One end was black.

“We can cut that part off,” he said.

“We can call it rustic.”

He sliced away the burned crust as she checked the chicken. This time, it was browned and fragrant. They stood for a moment in the warm kitchen, surveying the crowded table, the salad, the wine, and the slightly lopsided pie.

The doorbell rang early.

Eli reached for Maya’s flour-dusted hand and squeezed it once. Then she opened the door while he hurried to clear the last two glasses from the drying rack.


By five-thirty, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of water boiling on the stove. Maya stood at the counter in their rented house outside Columbus, chopping parsley while Daniel carried folding chairs up from the basement.

“How many did you invite?” he asked, wedging the last chair between the table and the wall.

“Six,” Maya said. She glanced at the chairs. “So eight total.”

Daniel counted under his breath, then pointed toward the living room. “We’re one short.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to own duplicate phone chargers but not enough dining chairs. Daniel went next door to borrow one from Mrs. Alvarez while Maya stirred the tomato sauce and checked the bread in the oven.

When he returned, he found her crouched near the smoke detector, waving a dish towel beneath it.

“Bread?” he asked.

“Only the edges.”

He pulled the baking sheet out and inspected the darkened loaf. “We’ll call it rustic.”

Maya laughed, then handed him a bowl of salad greens. He added sliced pears and walnuts while she set out the mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. The table looked uneven but cheerful beneath two glass jars filled with grocery-store carnations.

At six-fifteen, Daniel noticed the bathroom trash needed emptying. Maya remembered they had forgotten ice. He drove to the gas station while she cleared mail from the entryway, lit a candle, and changed out of the sweatshirt she had been cooking in.

Daniel came back carrying two bags of ice and a six-pack of sparkling water. He found Maya standing in the dining room, studying the table.

“Too crowded?” she asked.

“Cozy,” he said.

The doorbell rang before she could answer. Their friends’ voices rose on the porch, followed by laughter. Daniel reached for the door while Maya turned down the burner under the sauce.

For one brief second, they looked at each other across the room—the chairs squeezed together, the bread slightly burned, the house warmer than usual.

“Ready?” Daniel asked.

Maya smiled. “Close enough.”


Maya stood at the kitchen island in their rented bungalow outside Raleigh, slicing lemons while the oven warmed behind her. She and Ben had invited six friends for dinner, their first real gathering since moving in together three months earlier, and the house still looked half-finished.

“Do you think anyone will notice we only have four matching plates?” Ben called from the dining room.

“They’ll notice when two people get cereal bowls,” Maya said.

Ben opened another cabinet and found two plain white plates left by the previous tenant. “Problem solved.”

While Maya rubbed chicken thighs with garlic, salt, and rosemary, Ben unfolded the dining table’s extra leaf. It stuck halfway, as it always did. Maya washed her hands and came over to help. Together they pulled until the leaf snapped into place, nearly knocking over a floor lamp.

“Excellent teamwork,” Ben said, steadying it.

“Very graceful.”

They divided the remaining chores without discussing it. Ben vacuumed the living room and moved a stack of unopened mail into their bedroom. Maya assembled a salad, then remembered that their friend Rachel was vegetarian. Ben offered to run to the grocery store, but Maya found a can of chickpeas and made a quick second entrée with tomatoes and spices.

At six, Ben changed the playlist from quiet folk music to something livelier. Maya lit two candles and frowned at the clutter on the bookshelf. Ben came up behind her carrying wineglasses.

“Leave it,” he said. “They know we live here.”

She looked around. The tablecloth was slightly crooked, the chairs did not match, and a moving box still served as a side table. But the chicken smelled good, the chickpeas were simmering, and Ben had somehow arranged grocery-store flowers in a water pitcher.

The doorbell rang five minutes early.

Maya glanced at Ben. “Ready?”

He picked a thread from her sleeve and smiled. “Close enough.”

She opened the door as their friends crowded onto the porch, laughing and holding bottles of wine.


Maya checked the oven clock: 6:12. Their friends were due at seven, and the chicken still looked pale beneath the kitchen light.

“Did you turn the oven on?” she asked.

From the dining room, Ben stopped unfolding napkins. “I thought you did.”

They stared at each other, then laughed—the strained kind that came from trying to host dinner after a long workweek. Ben hurried over and set the oven to 425 while Maya slid the roasting pan onto the counter. They had lived together in the small Columbus, Ohio, bungalow for two years, but they still hadn’t figured out who was responsible for preheating.

While the oven warmed, Maya whisked dressing for the salad. Ben cleared unopened mail from the dining table and carried a stack of hardware-store flyers to the bedroom. On his way back, he noticed muddy paw prints near the front door.

“Duke,” he called.

Their dog lifted his head from the couch, unconcerned. Ben filled a bucket and mopped the floor while Maya arranged grocery-store flowers in a blue pitcher. She trimmed the stems too short, so Ben brought her a mason jar instead. The pitcher went back on the shelf.

At 6:35, the chicken finally went in. Maya worried it wouldn’t be ready, but Ben reminded her they had cheese, crackers, and enough hummus for twice as many people. He set them out on a wooden cutting board while she changed into a clean sweater.

When she returned, Ben was lighting two candles. One leaned slightly, and the napkins didn’t match, but the room looked warm.

The doorbell rang at 6:58.

“Of course they’re early,” Maya whispered.

Ben glanced toward the oven, then took her hand for a second. “We’ve got this.”

She opened the door to cold air and familiar voices. Behind her, Ben welcomed everyone in, took coats, and offered drinks. The house filled quickly with laughter, and the unfinished dinner stopped feeling like a problem.


Maya checked the clock on the stove and called toward the hallway, “They’ll be here in forty minutes.”

“I know,” Daniel answered from the bedroom. “I’m changing the sheets.”

“No one is going into our bedroom.”

“That’s what you said last time, and then Leah needed to nurse the baby somewhere quiet.”

Maya smiled and returned to chopping parsley. Their rented bungalow in Columbus had seemed spacious when they moved in together two years earlier, but before a dinner party it always felt as if every surface were in the way. Grocery bags crowded the counter. Six mismatched chairs surrounded a table meant for four.

Daniel emerged carrying a bundle of laundry. He paused beside the simmering pot and lifted the lid.

“Don’t,” Maya said.

“I was only looking.”

“You were going to stir it.”

“I’m allowed to stir in my own home.”

She handed him the wooden spoon. “Clockwise. Gently.”

While Daniel stirred the tomato sauce, Maya swept onion skins into the compost bin. They had divided the work without discussing it: she handled dinner, he handled the rooms. Still, when she saw him wrestling the vacuum around the dining chairs, she turned down the burner and helped stack the chairs in the living room.

Daniel noticed the wine glasses were cloudy, so he washed them again. Maya tasted the sauce and frowned. He offered salt; she added a splash of vinegar instead. Neither mentioned the disagreement they had had that morning about renewing the lease. It remained between them, not gone, but temporarily folded away like the clean towels Daniel placed in the bathroom.

At six twenty, the table was set. Candles stood in old jam jars, and the bungalow smelled of garlic and bread.

Maya leaned against Daniel’s shoulder. “We did it.”

“We always do.”

The doorbell rang, followed by laughter on the porch. Daniel squeezed her hand before opening the door, while Maya hurried back to the kitchen to rescue the bread from the oven.


Maya checked the oven clock and called toward the hallway, “They’ll be here in forty minutes.”

Ethan appeared carrying an armful of coats, scarves, and unopened mail. “I’m making the chair usable,” he said, dumping everything onto their bed.

They had rented the small bungalow outside Columbus for nearly two years, long enough to know that six dinner guests would make the dining room feel like a subway car. Maya had extended the table with its hidden leaf while Ethan borrowed folding chairs from their neighbor.

In the kitchen, onions softened in a Dutch oven. Maya stirred them into the beef stew and tasted the broth. “Needs salt.”

Ethan, rinsing wineglasses at the sink, looked over. “You said that last time, and everyone drank a gallon of water.”

“That was the ham.”

“That was memorable.”

She flicked a dish towel at him, then added a cautious pinch.

They moved around each other with the practiced rhythm of people who shared a narrow kitchen: Maya slicing bread while Ethan cleared the cutting board, Ethan opening wine while Maya found candles. Neither had remembered dessert. After a brief debate, Ethan drove to the grocery store for an apple pie, returning with pie, vanilla ice cream, and a bag of tortilla chips they did not need.

While he swept the front steps, Maya changed out of her stained sweatshirt and lit the candles. Then she noticed the bathroom trash was full. Ethan noticed the cat had climbed onto the set table.

“Team emergency,” Maya said.

She emptied the trash while he carried the protesting cat to the bedroom. They met again in the dining room just as headlights swept across the front window.

Ethan straightened a crooked napkin. Maya tucked loose hair behind her ear.

“Ready?” he asked.

The doorbell rang before she could answer.

Maya smiled, squeezed his hand, and went to welcome their friends while Ethan hurried back to the kitchen to rescue the bread from the oven.