By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark, reflecting the pendant lights above the counter. Rachel stood at the stove in her work clothes, loosening the lid on a pot of rice while the exhaust fan hummed. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“You remembered the cilantro,” she said.

“I remembered the cilantro,” he confirmed, setting the bag down. “I forgot the limes.”

Rachel glanced at the cutting board. “We have half of one.”

“Then I planned perfectly.”

He hung his jacket on the chair instead of the hook. Rachel noticed but said nothing. Marcus sorted the mail into a neat pile: utility bill, grocery circular, a postcard from the dentist. Then he washed his hands and began chopping the cilantro while Rachel stirred black beans with cumin and garlic.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She smiled and handed him a spoon. “Taste this.”

He tried the beans, added a pinch of salt, and reached for the tortillas. Their cat, Olive, appeared at the sound of the refrigerator opening and sat expectantly near his feet.

“You already ate,” Marcus told her.

“She says that was hours ago.”

“She says a lot for someone who sleeps sixteen hours a day.”

Rachel moved the rice off the burner while Marcus warmed tortillas in a skillet. They worked around each other without much thought, opening drawers and stepping aside at the right moments. He filled two glasses with water and cleared a stack of unopened packages from the small dining table. She carried over bowls of rice, beans, shredded cheese, and the last half lime, cut into two narrow wedges.

Before sitting, Marcus went back to hang up his jacket properly.

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

They assembled their tacos while the dishwasher clicked through its cycle. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Rachel asked whether they needed to do the same.

“After dinner,” Marcus said, squeezing his lime over the beans. “Definitely after dinner.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at itself. Daniel stood at the counter cutting broccoli while his wife, Marissa, searched the refrigerator for the bottle of soy sauce she was certain they had.

“It’s in the door,” Daniel said.

“I’m looking at the door.”

“Top shelf, behind the mustard.”

She moved two jars and found it. “You could have just said behind the mustard.”

Their house sat on a quiet street outside Columbus, Ohio, close enough to the highway that they could hear trucks when the wind was right. Tonight, the furnace hummed under the floor, and a damp pair of gloves lay on the radiator by the back entrance. Marissa had dropped them there after taking the trash bin to the curb.

Daniel slid the broccoli into a hot skillet. Marissa measured rice into the cooker, rinsing it until the water ran mostly clear. They had both worked late—Daniel at the county office, Marissa from the spare bedroom upstairs—and neither had wanted to stop at the grocery store.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“I left a message.”

“For the upstairs sink?”

He gave her a look. “We only have one plumber problem.”

“You say that now.”

She opened a package of chicken and began slicing it into strips. Daniel cleared space for her, moving the cutting board and the pile of mail. A utility bill slipped to the floor. He picked it up, glanced at the total, and set it facedown.

They cooked without hurrying. Marissa added garlic; Daniel stirred the chicken and broccoli together. They talked about a meeting she had disliked, a coworker of his who had brought in doughnuts, and whether the neighbor’s maple tree needed trimming.

When the rice cooker clicked, Daniel filled two bowls. Marissa carried them to the small table near the window while he wiped the stove.

“You want sparkling water?” he asked.

“Only if there’s lime.”

He checked the refrigerator. “There’s lime.”

“Behind the mustard?”

He laughed, and for a moment the ordinary kitchen felt especially warm.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the jar of salsa he insisted he had bought on Sunday.

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“The other milk.”

They kept two cartons now—whole for Daniel’s coffee, oat for Maya’s cereal—and the salsa was wedged between them. He held it up without comment, and she smiled as she swept the pepper strips into a bowl.

It had been a normal Tuesday in their Ohio suburb. Maya had spent most of the day answering emails at the dining-room table. Daniel had driven home through light rain, stopping at the mailbox before coming inside. A grocery circular and two envelopes still lay beside his keys.

They were making tacos because the chicken needed to be used. Daniel warmed it in a skillet with cumin and a little broth while Maya grated cheese. The vent fan hummed overhead. Somewhere upstairs, the dryer thumped unevenly.

“Did you put the towels in with the sheets?” Maya asked.

“Maybe.”

“That’s the fitted sheet eating everything.”

“I’ll rescue them after dinner.”

He tasted the chicken, added salt, and handed her the spoon. She tried it and nodded. They moved around each other without much thought: Daniel opening drawers, Maya reaching past him for plates, both stepping aside at the same moment and then laughing.

While the tortillas heated, they talked about a plumber’s estimate, Maya’s morning meeting, and whether they had enough gas in the lawn mower for Saturday. Daniel set the table. Maya filled two glasses with water and carried over the bowls of lettuce, peppers, cheese, and salsa.

Before sitting down, Daniel turned off the burner. Maya checked it anyway.

Rain ticked against the window as they assembled their tacos. Upstairs, the dryer stopped with a final dull bump.

“Your turn,” Maya said.

Daniel took a bite and nodded toward the ceiling. “After I rescue the towels.”


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the neighboring houses. Rachel stood at the kitchen counter in her socks, chopping a red bell pepper while the local news murmured from a small television near the refrigerator.

“Traffic was awful,” Daniel said, coming in through the garage door with a canvas grocery bag. He set his keys in the ceramic bowl by the mail. “They closed a lane on Route 9 again.”

Rachel glanced at the bag. “Did you get tortillas?”

He pulled out a package and held it up. “And cilantro. They were out of the small avocados, so I bought one enormous one.”

“That’ll work.”

Daniel loosened his tie and washed his hands. Their dog, Millie, followed him hopefully from the sink to the stove, where chicken sizzled in a cast-iron skillet.

“She already ate,” Rachel said.

“I know. She’s just making sure we haven’t changed the policy.”

While Rachel added the peppers and onions to the pan, Daniel rinsed the cilantro and began tearing off the leaves. They compared notes about the day: a meeting Rachel had expected to be difficult but wasn’t, a printer jam that had delayed Daniel’s report, and a text from his sister about Sunday lunch.

“Can we do noon?” Rachel asked. “I need to run laundry before we go.”

“Sure. I’ll tell her.”

Daniel warmed the tortillas over a gas burner, turning each one with tongs. Rachel opened the dishwasher, found it still full of clean dishes, and sighed.

“I forgot to empty this morning.”

“I’ll do it after dinner,” he said.

They carried everything to the small dining table: chicken and peppers, shredded cheese, salsa, cilantro, and the oversized avocado mashed with lime and salt. Daniel switched off the television. For a few minutes they ate without talking, listening to the furnace click on and Millie circle twice before settling under the table.

“These are good,” Daniel said.

Rachel nodded. “The giant avocado helped.”

Outside, a garbage truck rumbled down the street. Inside, they discussed whether the leftovers would be enough for lunch, and whose turn it was to take the bins to the curb.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter in her socks, slicing a red pepper while the local news murmured from a small speaker. Her husband, Ben, came in through the garage carrying the mail under one arm and his laptop bag over the other.

“Anything important?” Mara asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to ‘Current Resident,’” he said. He dropped the stack beside the fruit bowl and loosened his tie. “So, no.”

She pointed with the knife toward the stove. “Can you start the rice?”

Ben washed his hands, then measured rice into the dented saucepan they had owned since their first apartment. While the water heated, he opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“Did we use the last of the soy sauce?”

“Door shelf, behind the mustard.”

He found it, along with a container of leftover broccoli. “Should we throw this in?”

Mara leaned over to inspect it. “Smells fine.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Ben chopped the broccoli while Mara browned chicken in the skillet. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still running from the load she had started that morning. On the refrigerator, a school fundraiser flyer from their neighbor’s daughter curled beneath a magnet shaped like Ohio.

“How was your meeting?” Ben asked.

“Forty-five minutes that could’ve been an email.”

He laughed. “Mine was an email that became a meeting.”

When the smoke alarm chirped once, Mara waved a dish towel beneath it while Ben opened the back door to the chilly November air. Neither seemed surprised.

They ate at the small table near the window, using paper napkins because the cloth ones were still in the dryer. Ben added hot sauce to his bowl. Mara reminded him they needed laundry detergent.

“Text it to me,” he said.

“You’re sitting right here.”

“I’ll forget by morning.”

She sent the text anyway. His phone buzzed beside his plate, and they both smiled before going back to dinner.


By six-thirty, the light over the sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Daniel, searched the refrigerator for the cilantro he was sure they had bought on Sunday.

“It’s behind the milk,” Maya said.

Daniel moved the carton and found the bunch flattened against a jar of pickles. “You were right.”

“I know where everything is because I’m the one who puts it away.”

“You handed me the grocery bags.”

“And you put the cilantro behind the milk.”

He smiled and rinsed it under the faucet. Their house in Ohio was small enough that they could talk from the kitchen to almost anywhere downstairs. From the living room came the local news, turned low, followed by the rattle of their dog’s collar as she wandered in to investigate.

“No onions for you,” Daniel told her, nudging her gently away with his knee.

Maya tipped the peppers into a hot skillet. They hissed beside the onions and chicken. Daniel set rice on the table, then opened the dishwasher and frowned.

“Clean or dirty?”

“Clean. I ran it this morning.”

He unloaded plates while she stirred the pan. They traded fragments of the day: a delayed meeting at Maya’s office, a customer who had called Daniel three times, the neighbor’s recycling bin rolling into their driveway during the afternoon wind.

“Did you bring ours in?” Maya asked.

Daniel paused with two forks in his hand. “I brought it halfway.”

“Halfway?”

“It’s by the garage.”

She laughed. “That’s not in.”

“I’ll get it after dinner.”

They assembled bowls with rice, chicken, vegetables, salsa, and the rescued cilantro. Daniel carried them to the table while Maya filled two glasses with water. Before sitting, she turned off the stove and checked the back door out of habit.

The dog settled between their chairs. Outside, a delivery truck stopped at the house across the street. Inside, Daniel tasted the food and nodded.

“Needs lime,” he said.

Maya pointed to the refrigerator. “Behind the milk.”


By six-thirty, the light outside the kitchen window had faded to gray. Rachel set her laptop on the counter and rubbed the bridge of her nose while Marcus stood at the sink, rinsing a bunch of cilantro.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty-five minutes longer than it needed to be.” She opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “Did you thaw the chicken?”

Marcus pointed to a bowl on the bottom shelf. “For once, I remembered.”

They had lived in the small Ohio house for four years, long enough to know which cabinet door stuck in humid weather and which floorboard squeaked near the pantry. Rachel took out the chicken and set it beside the cutting board. Marcus moved the mail away from a damp spot on the counter, sorting a utility bill from two grocery-store flyers.

“Tacos?” Rachel asked.

“That was the plan. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, tacos are good.”

Marcus heated a skillet while Rachel sliced peppers. They worked around each other with the practiced courtesy of people sharing limited space: a hand at the other’s back, a quiet “behind you,” a cabinet closed before someone bumped into it. The dishwasher hummed, still full from the night before.

“We’re out of sour cream,” Rachel said.

“There’s yogurt.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

“It’s basically the same thing.”

“It is not, but I’m too tired to argue.”

While the chicken browned, Marcus emptied the dishwasher. Rachel warmed tortillas directly over a gas burner, turning them with tongs. They talked about the neighbor’s loose dog, the price of replacing the upstairs window, and whether they could visit Marcus’s mother on Sunday.

When everything was ready, they carried their plates to the small dining table, pushing aside a stack of unopened magazines. Marcus went back for hot sauce. Rachel filled two glasses with water.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She looked at the stove, then at the sink already crowded with bowls and knives.

“Nothing that can’t wait until after dinner.”

Marcus switched off the kitchen light, leaving the warm lamp above the table, and sat across from her.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while Mark rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. Their mail lay in a crooked stack beside the fruit bowl—two bills, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist.

“How was traffic?” Elena asked.

“Slow by the bridge.” Mark shook the strainer and poured the rice into the saucepan. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

He laughed and reached past her for the olive oil. Their dog, Penny, watched from the doorway, hopeful but careful not to cross the line they had trained her to respect.

They were making chicken fajitas, a meal they both knew well enough to prepare without a recipe. Elena seasoned the chicken while Mark heated the skillet. When the oil began to shimmer, she slid the strips into the pan, and the kitchen filled with a sharp, savory hiss.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning. I set a reminder.”

“The downstairs sink is getting worse.”

“I know.” He nodded toward the faucet, where a dish towel hung drying. “I also moved the bucket under it.”

While the chicken cooked, Elena warmed tortillas in foil. Mark chopped cilantro, though he left the pieces larger than she preferred. She noticed but said nothing, only gathered the stems he had missed and added them to the compost container under the sink.

They worked around each other easily, opening drawers, trading utensils, wiping spills as they went. Mark set two plates on the small table by the window. Elena carried over the skillet, using both hands because the handle was hot.

“Want salsa?” he asked.

“The green one.”

He brought both jars anyway. Penny settled beneath the table with a sigh.

For a few minutes, they ate without talking, listening to the furnace click on and the faint hum of the dishwasher. Then Elena remembered something funny her coworker had said, and Mark nearly dropped his tortilla laughing. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, dinner continued, warm and ordinary.


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the neighboring roofs. Erin stood at the kitchen counter in her socks, slicing a bell pepper while the dishwasher hummed beside her. Her laptop bag was still on the chair where she had dropped it.

“Did you get the mail?” she asked.

Marcus looked up from the stove. He was browning ground turkey in a wide skillet, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon. “I thought you did.”

“I came in through the garage.”

“So did I.”

They looked at each other, then toward the dark front hallway. Marcus sighed and lowered the burner. “I’ll go.”

“Take the recycling out while you’re there?”

He gave her a wounded look, but picked up the bin.

While he was outside, Erin added the pepper to the skillet and opened a packet of taco seasoning. Tuesday tacos had started as a joke during their first year of marriage, when neither of them knew more than five recipes. Seven years later, they still made them at least twice a month.

Marcus returned with two envelopes, a grocery flyer, and the empty bin. “Electric bill and something from the dentist.”

“Living the dream.”

He set the mail beside the fruit bowl, then grated cheese while Erin warmed tortillas over the gas flame. They talked about her afternoon meeting, his coworker’s plan to retire, and whether the upstairs bathroom faucet was dripping more than it had last week.

“I can look at it Saturday,” Marcus said.

“You said that last Saturday.”

“I can look at it this Saturday with greater sincerity.”

Erin laughed and handed him a stack of plates. He carried them to the small dining table, moving a pile of unopened packages to the floor.

A few minutes later, they sat down with tacos, salsa, and the last two cans of sparkling water. Marcus reached for the hot sauce.

“We need more of that,” Erin said.

He nodded toward the grocery flyer. “Put it on the list.”

“You’re closer.”

He smiled, got up, and found the pen.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Leah stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly down the hall.

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

Marcus looked up from the stove. “Maybe.”

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

He lowered the burner beneath a skillet of chicken and went to redistribute the load. Leah heard the washer lid open, a few damp slaps, then the machine settle into a steadier rhythm.

“Fixed,” he called.

“Heroic.”

Their house was a narrow two-bedroom in Columbus, with a kitchen barely wide enough for both of them to turn around without negotiating. Marcus returned and reached behind Leah for the olive oil.

“Excuse me,” he said, though his elbow still bumped hers.

She tipped the chopped pepper into a bowl with onions. “How was the meeting?”

“Forty-five minutes about a spreadsheet everyone already understood.” He stirred the chicken. “Yours?”

“Caleb forgot his lunch, so I gave him my granola bar. Then he told me he doesn’t like almonds.”

“Generous and unappreciated.”

“Basically my whole career.”

Marcus smiled and handed her the wooden spoon. While she added the vegetables to the skillet, he warmed tortillas in the microwave and cleared a stack of mail from the small table. He paused over the electric bill.

“Higher again.”

“We ran the heat all month.”

“I know. I’m just complaining as a hobby.”

The dog scratched at the back door. Leah let him out, then stood for a moment watching neighboring porch lights come on across the wet yards. When she turned back, Marcus had set out salsa, plates, and the last two cans of sparkling water.

They assembled tacos at the table, passing cheese and hot sauce between them. The washer buzzed.

“I’ll move it after we eat,” Marcus said.

Leah took a bite and nodded. “I’ll fold.”

Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, the kitchen smelled of cumin and warm tortillas, and for the first time all day, neither of them was in a hurry.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Rachel stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a bell pepper while her husband, Marcus, searched the refrigerator for the jar of minced garlic.

“It’s on the door,” she said.

“I looked on the door.”

“The top shelf.”

Marcus found it behind a bottle of hot sauce. “You could have said behind the hot sauce.”

“I thought you knew your own refrigerator.”

He set the jar beside the stove and turned on the burner under a wide skillet. Their house, a modest brick ranch outside Columbus, still held the day’s chill. Marcus had dropped his keys into the blue bowl by the back door, and Rachel’s laptop bag rested against a kitchen chair. On the table, unopened mail leaned against a fruit bowl containing two soft apples and a single banana.

They were making chicken fajitas because the chicken needed to be used. Marcus cut it into strips while Rachel finished the peppers and opened a packet of tortillas. They talked about ordinary things: a stalled project at her office, the traffic on I-71, the neighbor’s recycling bin rolling into their yard again.

“Did you bring it back?” Rachel asked.

“I put it by their garage.”

“You’re nicer than I am.”

“No, I just didn’t want to look at it from the living room.”

The skillet hissed when Marcus added the chicken. Rachel cleared the cutting board, then filled two glasses with water and squeezed lime into them. While he stirred, she set the table and moved the mail to the counter, making a small pile for bills and another for recycling.

A timer beeped in the laundry room.

“I’ll get it,” Marcus said.

“You’re cooking.”

“So are you.”

Rachel smiled and went to transfer the towels to the dryer. When she returned, Marcus was warming tortillas over the burner, holding each one with tongs.

They carried everything to the table: skillet, tortillas, shredded cheese, salsa, and the last of the sour cream. Before sitting, Rachel lowered the thermostat one degree. Marcus noticed but said nothing. He simply handed her a warm tortilla and asked whether she wanted the corner piece of chicken, the one browned almost crisp.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Marcus, searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the orange juice,” she said without looking up.

Marcus moved the carton and found it. “You know this refrigerator too well.”

“I put the groceries away.”

“That explains everything.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher and the occasional rush of a car on the wet street. Mail lay in a loose stack beside Elena’s purse: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist reminding Marcus about an appointment he had already rescheduled twice.

He set the rice near the stove, then loosened his tie and hung it over the back of a chair. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed we should meet again.”

“Productive.”

Elena smiled and scraped the peppers into the skillet. They hissed in the oil. Marcus opened a can of black beans, rinsed them, and added cumin after asking, as he always did, whether half a teaspoon was enough.

“A little more,” she said.

While the vegetables cooked, he fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. Elena warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs. Marcus packed the extra rice into two containers for lunches and wiped up a streak of sauce from the counter.

“Did you call your mom?” he asked.

“I did. Her furnace is fixed. Did you take the recycling out?”

He paused.

Elena raised an eyebrow.

“I will after dinner.”

They carried their plates to the small dining table, shifting a pile of folded laundry onto the empty chair. Outside, rain tapped against the windows. Marcus reached for the hot sauce and asked whether they should watch one episode of their show.

“One,” Elena said.

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


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while Daniel rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. Their mail—two bills, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from a dentist—lay in a crooked stack beside the fruit bowl.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long,” Maya said. “Everyone agreed we needed a decision, and then nobody made one.”

He laughed and tipped the rice into a saucepan. “Productive.”

Their house was small, a two-bedroom ranch on a quiet Ohio street, and sounds traveled easily. The washing machine thumped in the hallway closet. From the living room came the local news, turned low enough that only the weather alerts were clear.

Daniel heated oil in the cast-iron skillet. Maya slid the peppers toward him, then opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“Did we use the last lime?”

“I think so. Sunday.”

She found a lemon instead. “Close enough.”

They were making rice bowls from what they had: chicken left from the night before, black beans, peppers, half an avocado, and salsa from a jar. Daniel stirred the vegetables while Maya shredded the chicken and squeezed lemon over it. They moved around each other without much thought, opening drawers, passing utensils, stepping aside at the sink.

“The porch light’s out again,” Maya said.

“I noticed. I’ll change it Saturday.”

“You said that last Saturday.”

“I’ll change it this Saturday with greater sincerity.”

She smiled and handed him the cumin.

When the rice was done, they assembled their bowls at the counter. Daniel carried them to the small dining table while Maya filled two glasses with water and switched off the television.

They sat beneath the pendant lamp, surrounded by ordinary unfinished things: a laundry basket waiting to be folded, a library book due Friday, the porch bulb still dark outside.

Daniel tasted the chicken. “The lemon works.”

“Close enough,” Maya said again, and they began to eat.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter in her socks, slicing a bell pepper beside a stack of unopened mail. Her husband, Mark, came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the grocery store.

“They were out of the small tortillas,” he said, setting the sack down. “So I got the big ones.”

“We’ll survive,” Elena said. “Did you remember cilantro?”

Mark pulled out a bunch, slightly crushed under a carton of eggs. Elena held it up by the stems.

“Technically,” she said.

He laughed, loosened his tie, and washed his hands. Their dog, Bailey, stationed himself between them, hopeful that gravity might provide dinner. Mark took over at the stove, stirring onions in a cast-iron skillet while Elena opened a can of black beans and rinsed them in the colander.

“How was the meeting?” she asked.

“Long. Nobody wanted to make the decision they scheduled the meeting to make.” He added the peppers. “How was your day?”

“One kid threw up during reading time. Another kid told me I looked tired.”

“Honest profession, teaching.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when the skillet got too hot. Mark waved a dish towel beneath it while Elena opened the back door, letting in cold November air. Bailey trotted outside, then immediately asked to come back in.

They worked around each other without much thought. Elena warmed tortillas in the microwave, wrapped in a damp towel. Mark grated cheese over a cutting board scarred from years of use. She moved his coffee mug from the morning into the dishwasher and found the clean plates still inside.

“I forgot to unload it,” Mark said.

“I noticed.”

“I’ll do it after we eat.”

They carried everything to the small dining table: skillet, beans, salsa, cheese, and the battered cilantro. Mark filled two water glasses while Elena turned off the kitchen light over the sink.

For a few minutes, they ate quietly. Then Elena nudged the mail toward him.

“Electric bill,” she said. “And your mother’s birthday card arrived.”

Mark sighed. “After dinner?”

“After the dishwasher.”

“Fair.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing bell peppers while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying the mail and an empty travel mug.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to ‘current resident,’” he said, dropping the stack near the fruit bowl. He loosened his tie and opened the refrigerator. “Did you already marinate the chicken?”

“Top shelf.”

He found the container, then paused to move a carton of eggs away from the edge. “We’re almost out of milk.”

“I put it on the list.”

Marcus checked the magnetic notepad on the refrigerator. “You wrote ‘milk’ and ‘dish soap.’”

“And coffee.”

“You didn’t write coffee.”

Elena looked over. “Then please write coffee.”

He added it, smiling, and carried the chicken to the stove. While he heated the skillet, Elena swept pepper seeds into her palm and tossed them into the compost bin beneath the sink. They talked about their days in pieces: a delayed meeting at Elena’s office, a customer who had called Marcus three times about the same invoice, traffic backed up near the elementary school.

The chicken hissed when it hit the pan. Marcus turned on the vent fan, and Elena opened a can of black beans. A local news station murmured from the small television on the counter, mostly ignored.

“Can you set the table?” he asked.

“I’m still chopping.”

“I’m cooking.”

“You’re standing near a pan.”

He laughed. “Fine. I’ll set it.”

A few minutes later, they carried everything to the dining table: rice, chicken, peppers, beans, and the half-used jar of salsa from the refrigerator door. Marcus filled two water glasses while Elena folded the dish towel over the oven handle.

They sat down beneath the pendant light. Before taking her first bite, Elena glanced toward the kitchen.

“We forgot to run the dishwasher.”

Marcus lifted his fork. “After dinner.”

“Together?”

“Together,” he said.


By six fifteen, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her husband, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying the mail and an empty travel mug.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something determined to sell us new windows.”

“We already have windows.”

“I know. They’re very persuasive.”

He set the mail near the fruit bowl, washed his hands, and opened the refrigerator. They had planned tacos, but the package of tortillas held only three.

“I thought we had more,” Daniel said.

Maya glanced over. “Check the freezer.”

He found a half bag behind the frozen peas and warmed them in a skillet. While Maya sautéed peppers and onions, he drained a can of black beans and added cumin, then lowered the heat when they began sticking.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” She nudged the onions with a wooden spoon. “How was traffic?”

“Accident near the exit. I listened to the same weather report four times.”

Their dog, Pepper, stationed herself between them, hopeful and inconvenient. Daniel stepped around her to fill the water bowl. Maya opened the dishwasher, discovered it was clean, and sighed.

“I’ll unload it,” he said.

“You’re already doing the beans.”

“The beans are emotionally stable.”

He put away plates while she grated cheese. They discussed whether the recycling had to go out that night, and Daniel remembered the laundry still sitting in the washer. Maya reminded him gently that wet towels developed opinions if ignored too long.

At seven, they carried their plates to the small dining table by the window. The tortillas were slightly freezer-burned, and the salsa was nearly gone, but dinner was warm. Daniel reached for the hot sauce.

“Laundry after this,” he said.

“And recycling.”

He nodded. “Then television?”

Maya smiled and tapped her glass against his. “If we survive the windows salesman.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting the room back at itself: yellow cabinets, a crowded refrigerator door, and Elena standing at the counter with a knife in her hand.

“Did you get the mail?” she asked.

Marcus stopped halfway through hanging his jacket over a chair. “I forgot.”

“It’s fine. I’ll grab it tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll go.” He slipped his shoes back on, returning a minute later with two envelopes and a grocery flyer. “Electric bill and something from the dentist.”

Elena groaned. “Put the dentist one where I can ignore it responsibly.”

He tucked it beneath the fruit bowl, then washed his hands. On the stove, a pot of water was beginning to tremble. Elena had chopped an onion and half a green pepper, and Marcus opened the refrigerator to find the package of chicken they had thawed that morning.

“Fajitas?” he asked.

“That was the plan, unless you secretly ate the tortillas.”

“I ate one.”

“There were eight.”

“I was hungry.”

She laughed and slid the vegetables into a hot skillet. Marcus cut the chicken into strips, pausing to move the cat away from the cabinet with his foot. They talked over the hiss of the pan: a delayed meeting at Elena’s office, road construction near Marcus’s school, whether the upstairs toilet was still running.

“It stopped after I jiggled the handle,” Marcus said.

“That isn’t fixing it.”

“It’s fixing it temporarily.”

While the chicken cooked, Elena set out salsa, shredded cheese, and the last of the sour cream. Marcus warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs until their edges browned.

“Two each,” Elena said. “We need lunch tomorrow.”

Marcus looked at the platter. “That sounds like a future-us problem.”

“Future us is tired of present us.”

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Before sitting, Marcus returned to the stove to turn off the burner Elena had missed. She watched him check it twice.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Team effort.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the cat waited hopefully beneath the table, and they began eating while the evening news played quietly from the living room.


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the houses across the street. Maya stood at the kitchen counter in her socks, slicing a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly down the hall.

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

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

“That means yes.”

“It sounded efficient at the time.” He set the bags down and kissed her cheek. “I got tortillas. And cilantro, even though half of it will turn to soup in the crisper drawer.”

Maya pointed her knife toward the laundry room. “Fix the washer before it walks out of the house.”

While she heated oil in a skillet, Ethan redistributed the load, then returned to unpack a can of black beans, a carton of eggs, and the coffee creamer they had run out of that morning. He opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“Where’s the chicken?”

“Bottom shelf. Blue container.”

He found it and began shredding the leftover roasted thighs while Maya tipped onions and peppers into the pan. The kitchen filled with their sharp, sweet smell. On the counter, her phone buzzed with a work email. She glanced at it, then turned the screen facedown.

“How was your meeting?” Ethan asked.

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

“Productive.”

“And your dentist?”

“No cavities. Apparently I’m a model citizen.”

They warmed the chicken with cumin and lime, and Ethan rinsed the cilantro while Maya drained the beans. He set the table with mismatched plates and moved a stack of unopened mail to the end of the counter. The dog hovered between them, hopeful and underfoot.

“Don’t feed him,” Maya said.

“I wasn’t.”

A shred of chicken fell. The dog swallowed it instantly.

Maya raised an eyebrow.

“Gravity fed him.”

They carried everything to the table—tortillas wrapped in a dish towel, salsa, beans, peppers, and chicken. Before sitting, Ethan switched on the porch light. Maya poured two glasses of water, and the washer settled into a steady hum.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“Behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“The other milk.”

He moved the oat milk and found the container. “We have too many milks.”

“We have two.”

They had both come home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a counselor, Daniel from the insurance office downtown. Their shoes sat crookedly beside the back door, damp from a brief rain. On the table, the day’s mail waited in a loose pile: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from Daniel’s aunt in Arizona.

Daniel put the rice in the microwave, then opened a can of black beans. Maya tipped the chopped pepper and onion into a skillet. The oil hissed, and she turned on the vent fan.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

He laughed. “Productive.”

“What about you?”

“Martin brought doughnuts, so morale improved for almost eleven minutes.”

While the vegetables cooked, Daniel rinsed cilantro and picked out the wilted stems. He set two bowls on the counter, along with salsa, shredded cheese, and the last avocado. Maya checked the calendar hanging beside the pantry.

“Trash goes out tonight,” she said.

“I’ll do it after we eat.”

“You said that last week.”

“And then I did it.”

“At seven in the morning, in socks.”

The microwave beeped. Daniel divided the rice between the bowls, and Maya spooned beans and vegetables over it. They ate at the small kitchen table, nudging the mail aside to make room.

Outside, a delivery truck stopped at the neighbor’s house. The dishwasher hummed from the load they had started that morning. Daniel reached for the salsa and asked whether they should watch one episode of their show.

“One,” Maya said.

“Absolutely.”

They both knew it would probably be two.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while Daniel rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. Their mail lay in a crooked stack beside the fruit bowl—an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist.

“How was traffic?” Maya asked.

“Slow by the bridge.” Daniel shook water from the strainer. “I listened to half a podcast about sleep, which felt insulting.”

She laughed and slid the peppers into a bowl. “Did you remember to call the plumber?”

He paused.

“Daniel.”

“I set a reminder to call the plumber.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I know. I’ll do it tomorrow morning.”

Their old dishwasher hummed behind them, occasionally making a hollow knocking sound. The faucet had begun dripping three days earlier, and a folded dish towel sat beneath it to keep the noise down.

They were making chicken fajitas, the kind of dinner they could assemble without a recipe. Daniel measured rice and water into a saucepan while Maya seasoned the chicken. He opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“We’re out of sour cream.”

“There’s Greek yogurt.”

“That’s not sour cream.”

“It is on a Tuesday.”

He accepted this and took out the container. While the skillet heated, Maya changed into slippers and fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. Daniel cleared two places at the small table, moving a laptop and a pile of coupons to the empty chair.

The peppers hissed when Maya dropped them into the pan. Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them carefully with tongs.

“Your mother texted,” he said. “Sunday dinner at four.”

“Four?”

“Apparently that’s dinner now.”

They ate beneath the pendant light, adding yogurt, salsa, and too much cilantro to their fajitas. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Daniel washed the skillet by hand.

Before they left the kitchen, he wrote CALL PLUMBER on a sticky note and pressed it to the coffee maker, where neither of them could miss it in the morning.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned black with the early winter dark. Elena set a pot of water on the stove while Mark emptied the dishwasher, stacking plates in the cabinet beside her.

“Did you get the mail?” she asked.

Mark paused with a mug in each hand. “Still in the box.”

“I’ll grab it after we eat.”

“No, I will. You got it yesterday.”

Elena smiled and opened the refrigerator. They had planned spaghetti, but the package of ground turkey was still frozen. She held it up, and Mark pressed a thumb against the hard plastic.

“Not happening,” he said.

They considered ordering pizza, then remembered the leftover roasted chicken from Sunday. Mark pulled it from the bottom shelf while Elena found half an onion, a bell pepper, and a jar of salsa. They decided on quesadillas.

As Elena sliced the vegetables, Mark shredded the chicken with two forks. He told her about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late because his manager couldn’t get the conference-room screen to work. She told him the copier at her office had jammed twice and that someone had left a birthday cupcake in the break room for her.

“Whose birthday?”

“No idea. I ate it anyway.”

Mark laughed and wiped a streak of salsa from the counter. The dryer buzzed in the hallway.

“Sheets,” Elena said.

“I’ll switch them.”

“You said that last time, and they sat there all night.”

“They were getting an extra tumble.”

While he moved the laundry, Elena warmed tortillas in a skillet. Mark returned carrying two placemats and set the small kitchen table. He filled their water glasses, then opened the back door to let the dog in from the fenced yard.

They ate with the radio playing softly on the counter. Afterward, Elena packed two leftover wedges for lunch, and Mark rinsed the skillet.

“I’ll get the mail now,” he said, reaching for his coat.

“And the sheets?”

He stopped, looked toward the hallway, and sighed. “Sheets first.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel came in through the garage, setting his laptop bag beside the row of shoes.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Accident near the bridge.” He loosened his tie and opened the refrigerator. “Do we have any sparkling water left?”

“Behind the milk.”

He found a can, then paused beside the stove. “What can I do?”

Maya nodded toward a cutting board. “Onion. Half of it. And please make the pieces smaller than last time.”

“Those were rustic.”

“Those were boulders.”

Daniel washed his hands, smiling, and began chopping. Their golden retriever, Penny, settled between them, hopeful despite repeated reminders that onions were not for dogs. On the stove, rice simmered in a dented saucepan they had owned since their first apartment. A load of laundry thumped unevenly down the hall.

“Did the plumber call?” Daniel asked.

“Thursday morning. He said the leak under the sink is probably the disposal.”

“Probably sounds expensive.”

“It always does.”

Maya tipped the peppers into a skillet. They hissed in the oil, and Daniel added the onion a moment later. He opened a can of black beans, rinsed them, and scattered cumin over the pan while Maya warmed tortillas directly over a burner.

They talked about small things: her meeting that ran long, his coworker’s retirement lunch, whether they needed coffee, and the permission slip their niece had left on the entry table after visiting Sunday. Daniel checked the mail and returned with two bills and a grocery flyer.

“Coffee’s on sale,” he said.

“Circle it.”

When the rice was done, they carried everything to the table: beans and peppers, shredded cheese, salsa, and the last half of an avocado. Daniel filled two glasses with water while Maya moved a stack of unopened mail off his chair.

Penny lay beneath the table as they ate, listening to their quiet conversation and waiting for something harmless to fall.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect Lena moving between the stove and the refrigerator. She still wore her office clothes, though she had traded her shoes for wool socks. A pot of rice simmered on the back burner.

Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and a canvas grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting both on the counter. “I got parsley, which is either a reasonable substitute or a completely different plant.”

Lena glanced into the bag. “For tacos? Completely different plant.”

“I suspected that.”

He hung his jacket on the chair, then moved it to the hook after Lena gave the chair a look. Their small kitchen had limited counter space, so they worked around each other by habit. Mark rinsed bell peppers at the sink while Lena opened a can of black beans. The dishwasher hummed beneath them, still running from the delay cycle they had set that morning.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Nobody wanted to make the decision, so we scheduled another meeting to discuss why we didn’t make the decision.”

Mark nodded. “Productive.”

She smiled and handed him a cutting board. “Your day?”

“Mostly fine. The copier jammed, and Greg tried to fix it with a butter knife.”

“Did it work?”

“No, but now the break room is missing a butter knife.”

They chopped onions and peppers while the skillet heated. Mark warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Lena found the sour cream behind a container of leftover soup and checked the date.

“Still good,” she said.

“Scientifically?”

“Optimistically.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when a tortilla blackened at the edge. Mark opened the back door, letting in cold air and the distant sound of a lawn mower. Lena turned on the vent fan.

A few minutes later, they carried their plates to the table, nudging aside a stack of unopened mail. Mark filled two glasses with water. Lena sat down and exhaled.

“We should deal with that mail,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Definitely tomorrow.”

They tapped their glasses together and began to eat.


By six fifteen, Marcus had changed out of his work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a red pepper into uneven strips. The dishwasher hummed beside him. Outside, a delivery truck groaned away from the curb, leaving the quiet Ohio street damp and shining after an afternoon shower.

Elena came in through the garage carrying her laptop bag and the mail. She dropped the envelopes beside the fruit bowl and leaned over to kiss Marcus.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something trying to convince us we need new windows.”

“We always need new windows, according to the mail.”

Elena laughed and opened the refrigerator. They had planned tacos, but the package of tortillas held only three.

“I thought we had more.”

“I ate two on Sunday,” Marcus said. “Egg wraps.”

She gave him a look, then pulled out a bag of rice. “Bowls, then.”

While the rice heated, Elena rinsed lettuce and chopped the half tomato left in the produce drawer. Marcus browned ground turkey in the cast-iron skillet, adding cumin, chili powder, and more salt after Elena tasted it with a wooden spoon.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Nobody wanted to make the decision, so we scheduled another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“And your afternoon?”

“One kid threw up in the hallway right before dismissal.”

Marcus taught seventh-grade science. Elena worked for a regional insurance company. Their weekdays often ended like this, exchanging complaints while assembling dinner from whatever they had remembered to buy.

The smoke alarm chirped once when the skillet got too hot. Marcus opened the back door, and Elena waved a dish towel beneath the alarm.

Their dog, Penny, appeared instantly, hopeful that the commotion involved food.

“It does not,” Elena told her.

They carried their bowls to the small table by the window. Marcus went back for hot sauce and returned with the electric bill.

“After dinner?” he asked.

“After dinner,” Elena agreed, nudging his foot under the table. For the next few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence while rainwater dripped steadily from the gutters.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Marcus stood at the counter in his work shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, slicing a red pepper while Elena searched the refrigerator.

“We’re out of cilantro,” she said.

“We’ve been out since Sunday.”

“Then why is the empty bag still in here?”

Marcus glanced over. “To remind us of better times.”

Elena laughed and tossed the bag into the trash. They had both come home tired—she from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, he from the county planning office—but neither wanted to order takeout again. The recycling bin already held two pizza boxes from the weekend.

They settled on chicken tacos without cilantro. Elena warmed tortillas in a skillet while Marcus seasoned the chicken. On the counter, his phone played the local news quietly beneath the hiss of onions. Their dog, Pepper, stationed herself between them, hopeful and in the way.

“Did you call the plumber?” Elena asked.

“I emailed. He can come Thursday morning.”

“I have an early meeting.”

“I’ll work from home.”

She nodded and flipped a tortilla. “The sink only leaks when we use it, so technically we could stop using water.”

“Excellent. Problem solved.”

Marcus carried the cutting board to the table, and Elena followed with the skillet. They ate beside a stack of unopened mail: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from Elena’s aunt in Arizona. Halfway through dinner, Marcus remembered the laundry in the washer.

“If it smells weird, we’re blaming the machine,” he said.

“We’re blaming the person who started it yesterday.”

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers into glass containers while Marcus loaded the dishwasher. He wiped the stove, missing one streak of oil, and she reached past him to clean it without comment. Pepper received a small piece of chicken for her patience.

By eight, the kitchen was mostly restored. The plumber was on the calendar, lunch was ready for tomorrow, and the laundry had been restarted. They turned off the light and carried their water glasses upstairs.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Marcus, rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the washing machine thumping unevenly in the laundry closet.

“You left a pen in your pocket again,” Elena said.

Marcus looked toward the hallway. “Blue ink?”

“Black. Your work pants survived. One of my socks has a new personality.”

He winced. “I’ll buy you another pair.”

“You can start by moving the laundry to the dryer.”

He set the rice on the stove and disappeared down the hall. Elena tipped the peppers into a hot skillet with onions and chicken. The oil snapped, and she turned on the vent fan. When Marcus returned carrying a stray dryer sheet stuck to his sleeve, he opened the refrigerator.

“Do we have salsa?”

“Door, second shelf.”

He found the jar, then paused. “This expired last month.”

“It’s been open two days.”

“Oh. Right.” He set it on the table with two plates and the stack of mail they had been ignoring since Monday.

They talked while the chicken cooked: a meeting Marcus had nearly missed, the substitute teacher in Elena’s classroom, whether the car’s strange clicking sound was serious. Neither knew, so Marcus added “call mechanic” to the grocery list on the refrigerator.

When the rice was done, Elena spooned it into bowls while Marcus warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs.

“One’s getting dark,” she warned.

“That’s flavor.”

“That’s smoke.”

He laughed and moved it to a plate. They carried everything to the small dining table, nudging the mail aside. Before sitting, Elena noticed the washing machine had stopped.

“Laundry,” she said.

“After dinner,” Marcus replied, passing her the salsa.

She considered it, then nodded. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, they ate while the skillet cooled on the stove and the forgotten laundry waited in the dark.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work shirt and was standing at the kitchen counter in socks, chopping a yellow onion. His wife, Elena, came in through the garage carrying her laptop bag and a sack of groceries.

“You started without me,” she said, setting the groceries beside the fruit bowl.

“I was hungry without you,” he replied.

She laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. The house smelled faintly of onion and the lemon cleaner they had used on Sunday. On the refrigerator, a dentist appointment card hung under a magnet from Yellowstone, beside a grocery list that still said coffee even though Elena had just bought some.

“What are we making?” she asked.

“Pasta. Unless you had a better idea.”

“I bought spinach before I could change my mind.”

While Marcus stirred garlic into a skillet, Elena filled a pot with water and set it on the burner. She opened the mail that had accumulated near the toaster: an electric bill, a hardware-store flyer, and a postcard addressed to the previous owner.

“Power bill went up,” she said.

“Air-conditioning.”

“It wasn’t that hot.”

“You say that, but you set it to sixty-eight.”

“Seventy.”

“Sixty-eight at night.”

Elena gave him a look, then tipped the spinach into the skillet. It collapsed almost immediately, and Marcus said, “That hardly seems worth four dollars.”

They moved around each other without thinking. He reached past her for the salt; she slid the colander into the sink before he asked. In the living room, the washing machine chimed from the closet, announcing a load neither of them wanted to fold.

“Your turn,” Elena said.

“I did towels.”

“Three days ago.”

Marcus drained the pasta while she grated Parmesan. They ate at the small kitchen table, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb.

After dinner, Elena packed leftovers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet and left it soaking anyway. They agreed to fold the laundry after one episode of their show, both knowing it would probably still be there in the morning.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a bell pepper while the evening news murmured from a speaker. Her husband, Ben, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of the rice you like,” he said, setting the bag beside the sink. “I got jasmine instead.”

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

Ben held one up with a small flourish. “Two, actually.”

Their house in Ohio was quiet except for the furnace clicking on and the dog’s nails tapping across the floor. Ben loosened his tie, washed his hands, and began rinsing a can of black beans. Mara slid the chopped peppers into a skillet, where they hissed in oil.

“How was your meeting?” she asked.

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

Mara laughed. “Productive.”

He asked about her day, and she told him about a customer who had called three times over the same invoice. As she talked, Ben measured rice into the pot and wiped up the grains that scattered near the burner. They moved around each other without much thought—Mara opening the spice drawer as Ben reached for a wooden spoon, Ben stepping aside so she could get to the refrigerator.

On the counter, unopened mail formed two piles: bills and everything else. Ben pointed to a postcard reminding them about the dentist.

“You’re due,” he said.

“So are you.”

“I wasn’t the one who ignored the last reminder.”

Mara squeezed lime over the peppers and gave him a look. “Set the table.”

He carried plates to the small dining room while she warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame. A smoke alarm chirped once, offended but unconvinced. Ben opened the back door for a moment, letting in cold air.

When they sat down, the dog settled between their chairs. Ben tasted the rice.

“Jasmine works,” he said.

Mara nodded, already reaching for another tortilla. “Put it on the list.”


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Marcus, searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I checked the door.”

“The bottom shelf.”

He crouched and found it behind a jar of pickles. “You could organize crime scenes.”

“I did organize it. You moved everything when you put the groceries away.”

Marcus set the bottle beside the stove and loosened his tie. He had come home ten minutes earlier, carrying the mail and complaining mildly about traffic on the interstate. Elena, who worked from their spare bedroom, had closed her laptop at six and started rice in the old cooker they had received as a wedding gift.

Their house outside Columbus was small enough that the kitchen opened directly into the living room. From the stove, Elena could see a laundry basket on the couch and Marcus’s shoes beside the front door, one tipped on its side.

“Did the electric bill come?” she asked.

Marcus sorted through the envelopes. “Yes. Also three things addressed to the previous owner and a coupon for gutters.”

“Living the dream.”

He laughed, then took over at the stove, browning strips of chicken in a skillet while Elena finished the vegetables. They moved around each other without discussion: she opened a drawer as he stepped aside; he handed her the wooden spoon before she asked.

“How was your meeting?” he said.

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

“Only six?”

Elena poured the peppers into the skillet. The pan hissed, and Marcus turned on the vent. For a few minutes they talked about whether to call his mother that night, whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher, and the neighbor’s recycling bin rolling into their driveway again.

When the rice cooker clicked, Marcus set out two chipped blue bowls. Elena carried the skillet to the table, nudging aside a stack of unopened mail.

They ate beneath the soft hum of the refrigerator. Outside, someone started a lawn mower despite the fading light. Marcus reached for more rice.

“Not bad for a Tuesday,” he said.

Elena looked at the laundry waiting on the couch. “Tuesday isn’t over yet.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Daniel, searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking in the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He found it behind a jar of mustard and held it up. “Someone moved it.”

“Someone put it away.”

Their house, a narrow two-story in a suburb outside Columbus, still carried the chill of late November. Daniel nudged the thermostat up with his elbow as he passed into the hallway, then returned to rinse rice in a mesh strainer. Mara tipped the peppers into a hot skillet. They hissed, and she turned on the vent fan.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long. We spent forty minutes deciding to have another meeting.” She added broccoli and shook the pan. “You?”

“Printer jammed twice. Kevin blamed the paper.”

“Was it the paper?”

“It was Kevin.”

Mara laughed, and Daniel smiled as he measured water into the rice cooker. On the floor, their dog, June, waited hopefully beneath the cutting board. A piece of broccoli dropped. June sniffed it and looked offended.

Daniel opened the mail while the rice cooked: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard reminding him about a dental cleaning. Mara mixed soy sauce, honey, garlic, and vinegar in a chipped blue bowl they had owned since their first apartment.

“Can you set the table?” she asked.

He carried plates to the small dining nook, moving Mara’s laptop and a stack of unopened magazines onto a chair. Then he filled two glasses with water and gave June fresh kibble.

When the rice cooker clicked, they divided dinner between two bowls. Daniel tasted his and reached for hot sauce.

“You haven’t even tried it,” Mara said.

“I did try it.”

“One bite.”

“It was an informed bite.”

They ate while the dishwasher hummed behind them, discussing whether they needed milk and whose turn it was to take the recycling out. Nothing urgent was settled, but Daniel added milk to the list on the refrigerator, and Mara promised to drag the bin to the curb before bed.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark, reflecting the room back at itself: the refrigerator crowded with magnets, the dish towel hanging crookedly from the oven handle, and Lena standing at the counter chopping a yellow pepper.

Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and an empty travel mug. He set both beside the fruit bowl and loosened his tie.

“How was traffic?” Lena asked.

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

“Long by the copier.”

He laughed, then washed his hands and opened the refrigerator. They had agreed on chicken tacos, though neither had remembered to thaw the chicken. Lena had found a can of black beans and declared it a reasonable substitute.

Mark drained the beans while she pushed the peppers into a hot skillet. The burner clicked softly beneath the pan. He read the mail aloud: an electricity bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard reminding them that the dentist missed them.

“The dentist misses your insurance,” Lena said.

“Still nice to be missed.”

Their dog, Pepper, stationed herself between them, hopeful for anything that fell. Mark grated cheese, dropping a few strands deliberately. Lena pretended not to notice.

They talked about ordinary things: whether the upstairs bathroom was still dripping, what time Mark needed the car on Thursday, and whether Lena’s sister was visiting that weekend or the next. When the smoke alarm chirped once, Lena waved a potholder beneath it while Mark turned on the vent.

They carried the bowls to the small table by the window. Mark returned for hot sauce and switched off the kitchen light, leaving only the lamp above the table.

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

“They’re beans in a tortilla.”

“Good beans in a tortilla.”

Lena smiled and nudged his water glass closer to him. Around them, the house settled into its evening noises—the furnace starting, the dog circling under the table, a neighbor rolling a trash bin to the curb. They ate slowly, deciding the dishes could wait until after the news.


By six-thirty, Daniel was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while his wife, Marisol, stood at the counter trimming the ends from a bag of green beans. Outside, a delivery truck idled beside the apartment building, its backup alarm sounding through the half-open window.

“How was the staff meeting?” she asked.

“Long,” Daniel said. He swirled the rice once more, then poured off the cloudy water. “We spent forty minutes deciding to revisit the issue next week.”

Marisol laughed. “Productive.”

She slid the beans into a bowl and reached past him for the olive oil. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had learned a kind of choreography: one stepped toward the stove while the other opened the refrigerator, each turning sideways without thinking.

Daniel set the rice cooker on the counter. “Did you call the plumber?”

“Thursday morning. They gave me an eight-to-noon window.”

“Of course they did.”

The faucet had been dripping for three days, not enough to be urgent but enough to make them notice. Daniel tightened the handle until it stopped, temporarily, and Marisol seasoned two chicken thighs with salt, pepper, and paprika.

While the skillet heated, he cleared yesterday’s mail from the small table—an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from his dentist. Marisol put the chicken in the pan, and the apartment filled with the sharp, warm smell of garlic.

“Can you check the beans?” she asked.

Daniel opened the oven and tested one with a fork. “Almost.”

His phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, then turned it facedown.

“Work?” Marisol asked.

“Fantasy baseball.”

“Even more important.”

They ate at the table beneath the window, knees occasionally bumping. The rice was slightly too soft, and the beans had browned at the edges, but the chicken was good. Afterward, Marisol packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Daniel filled the sink with soapy water.

“You wash,” she said, handing him the skillet. “I’ll dry.”

From the living room, the evening news murmured. The faucet began dripping again, steady and familiar, while they finished the dishes together.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter in her work slacks, slicing a bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her husband, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got the other kind.”

“The ones that fall apart?”

“The ones that build character.”

Mara smiled and pointed the knife toward the sink. “Wash your hands, then build character by opening the beans.”

Daniel loosened his tie and draped it over the back of a chair. Their dog, Benny, followed him hopefully from the sink to the pantry, though no food had appeared. On the refrigerator, a school fundraiser flyer from their niece hung beneath a magnet shaped like Ohio.

Daniel rinsed and drained the beans while Mara pushed the peppers and onions around a hot skillet. The vent fan hummed. Somewhere upstairs, the dryer buzzed.

“Did you switch the laundry?” she asked.

“I started it.”

“That was this morning.”

He paused with the can opener in his hand. “Then I did not switch the laundry.”

Mara laughed. “I’ll do it after we eat.”

“No, I will. You cooked.”

“We cooked.”

Daniel added cumin to the beans, then too much salt. He tried to scoop some out with a spoon, and Mara pretended not to notice. They warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs until the edges blistered.

At the table, Daniel sorted the mail into bills, advertisements, and something addressed to the previous owner. Mara filled two glasses with tap water and nudged his plate toward him.

They ate with the local news murmuring from the living room. Daniel mentioned a meeting that had run long; Mara described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice. Benny settled between their chairs.

Afterward, Daniel carried the plates to the sink.

“Laundry,” Mara reminded him.

He looked toward the stairs and sighed. “Right. Character.”


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Mara stood at the counter slicing peppers while her husband, Daniel, searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the yogurt,” she said without looking up.

Daniel moved two cartons and found it. “You always know where everything is.”

“I know where that is because you put it behind the yogurt every time.”

He smiled and set the rice beside the stove. Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the occasional rush of a car on the wet street. Near the back door, Daniel’s work shoes sat on the rubber mat, leaving small crescents of mud. Mara had dropped her tote bag on a dining chair, where a grocery receipt and two library books stuck out of the top.

Daniel heated oil in a skillet while Mara finished the peppers and opened a can of black beans. They had planned tacos, but the tortillas had gone stale.

“Bowls instead?” he asked.

“Bowls are fine. Did you call the plumber?”

“I left a message. He can probably come Thursday.”

Mara glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could see the slow drip in the upstairs bathroom. “Probably?”

“That was his word.”

She sighed, then slid the cutting board toward him. He tipped the peppers into the pan, and they hissed. Mara rinsed the beans and mixed lime juice into the rice. They talked about her staff meeting, his crowded commute, and whether they needed to bring anything to his sister’s on Sunday.

When dinner was ready, Daniel carried the bowls to the small table while Mara filled two glasses with water. She moved the mail aside, stacking a utility bill on top of a furniture catalog.

“This looks good,” he said, sitting down.

“It looks improvised.”

“Most good things are.”

Mara laughed and reached for the hot sauce. Outside, rain tapped against the window. Inside, the dishwasher waited to be emptied, the bathroom faucet still leaked, and dinner was warm.


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the houses across the street. Mara set her laptop on the hall table and found Daniel in the kitchen, rinsing rice in a mesh strainer.

“Traffic?” he asked.

“Bad near the school. Someone forgot how four-way stops work.”

He nodded as if this confirmed a long-held suspicion. A local news station murmured from the small radio beside the toaster. On the counter, two chicken breasts waited on a cutting board with a bottle of barbecue sauce, and the oven was preheating.

Mara changed out of her work shoes, then returned in slippers and opened the refrigerator. “We should use the broccoli.”

“I was hoping you’d say salad.”

“The lettuce is questionable.”

Together they examined the plastic container. Daniel lifted one wilted leaf between two fingers.

“Broccoli,” he agreed.

While he trimmed the florets, Mara seasoned the chicken and slid the pan into the oven. They moved around each other without much thought—she stepped aside so he could reach the trash, and he closed the spice cabinet she always left open. The dishwasher was still full from the night before, so Mara unloaded it while the rice simmered.

“Did the plumber call?” Daniel asked.

“Thursday morning. Eight to noon.”

“So, noon.”

“Probably twelve-fifteen.”

He laughed and handed her a clean mug from the top rack.

They talked about her staff meeting, his coworker’s new puppy, and whether the electric bill seemed unusually high. When the broccoli began to steam, Daniel cracked the kitchen window. Cold air slipped in, carrying the smell of someone else’s fireplace.

At seven-ten, they filled their plates and sat at the small table by the window. Mara noticed a smear of sauce on Daniel’s sleeve and pointed to it.

He looked down. “That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

“No, it’s laundry’s problem.”

After dinner, he packed the leftovers into containers while she washed the pan. The radio shifted to the weather forecast: rain overnight, clearing by morning. Daniel wiped the counters, Mara turned off the kitchen light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room, leaving the dishwasher to hum behind them.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter in her socks, slicing a bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her work badge still hung from her belt.

Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. “They were out of the tortillas you like,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got the flour ones instead.”

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

He pulled a bunch from the bag with a small flourish. “I remembered cilantro.”

Their dog, Penny, nosed hopefully at his coat pocket. Mark hung the coat over a chair, then corrected himself and carried it to the hall closet after Elena glanced at it.

“How was the meeting?” he asked, washing his hands.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” Elena slid the peppers into a skillet, where they hissed beside onions. “How was traffic?”

“Normal bad. Not special bad.”

He opened a can of black beans and rinsed them in the colander. They moved around each other without much thought: Elena reached for cumin while Mark stepped back; he opened the refrigerator just as she handed him the salsa to put away. On the counter, the mail waited between a school-district flyer and the electric bill.

“Can you feed Penny?” Elena asked.

“I thought you did.”

Penny sat very still, watching them.

Elena looked at the empty bowl. “Apparently neither of us did.”

Mark measured kibble while Elena warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning each one with tongs. The smoke detector gave a single warning chirp.

“It does that for you,” Mark said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“To your cooking.”

She bumped his hip with hers as he passed.

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Mark went back for hot sauce; Elena retrieved the napkins they had both forgotten. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, Penny crunched her dinner, and they began comparing what needed to be done before Friday.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room. Elena stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a red pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her husband, Mark, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got parsley, but that felt dishonest.”

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

Mark loosened his tie and began sorting the mail into piles: bills, advertisements, and something addressed to the previous owner, who had moved out four years ago. On the stove, chicken thighs browned in a cast-iron skillet. Elena nudged one with the tongs.

“Can you open the windows?” she asked. “I think the smoke alarm is considering it.”

Mark raised the window over the sink, then filled the dog’s water bowl. Their terrier, June, watched him expectantly.

“You already ate,” he told her.

“She doesn’t respect your records,” Elena said.

While Elena added peppers and onions to the skillet, Mark rinsed lettuce and found the salad spinner in the wrong cabinet. They talked about ordinary things: a meeting Elena had expected to be difficult, the strange noise Mark’s car had made that morning, whether they needed to call someone about the loose gutter before the weekend rain.

“Did you bring the trash cans in?” Elena asked.

Mark stopped spinning the lettuce. “I brought one in.”

“There are two.”

“I’ll get it after dinner.”

They ate at the small table near the back door, with June settled between their chairs. The chicken was a little too salty, and the rice had stuck at the bottom, but neither mentioned it. Mark told Elena about a coworker who had accidentally shared his grocery list during a presentation. Elena laughed hard enough to reach for her water.

Afterward, she packed leftovers into containers while Mark washed the skillet. Outside, the second trash can waited at the curb under the porch light.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Elena stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Mark rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. His tie hung over the back of a chair, and her laptop bag was still beside the front door.

“Did you get the oil changed?” she asked.

Mark stopped rinsing. “I remembered that I needed to.”

“So, no.”

“So, Saturday.”

Elena smiled and scraped the pepper into a bowl. Their dog, Penny, appeared at the sound, hopeful as always. Mark nudged her gently away from the stove with his socked foot.

They were making chicken stir-fry, the meal they relied on when neither had planned ahead. Elena cut the chicken while Mark measured water into the rice cooker. He pressed the button, waited, then pressed it again when nothing happened.

“It’s not plugged in,” Elena said.

“I knew that.”

The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the night before. While the pan heated, Mark began putting away plates. He had to open three cabinets before finding the one for the plastic containers, though they had lived in the house for four years.

Elena added the chicken to the pan, and it hissed loudly. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. We spent forty minutes deciding to have another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“And yours?”

She shrugged. “Fine. Carla brought doughnuts. Then asked why no one was eating healthy.”

Mark handed her the soy sauce. “Maybe she was testing you.”

They ate at the small table near the window, with unopened mail pushed to one side. Penny settled beneath Elena’s chair. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb.

Halfway through dinner, Mark remembered they needed to put theirs out too. Elena pointed her fork toward the door.

“After we eat.”

“Together?”

“You do trash. I’ll pack lunches.”

He nodded. It was not an exciting arrangement, but it was fair, and after an ordinary Tuesday, fair felt almost luxurious.


By six-thirty, rain had darkened the sidewalk outside the bungalow where Mara and Daniel had lived for eight years. Daniel came in first, setting his laptop bag beside the shoe rack and hanging his damp jacket over the back of a dining chair.

“Mail’s all ads,” he called, sorting the envelopes anyway.

Mara was in the kitchen, rinsing rice in a metal strainer. She had changed out of her work clothes and into sweatpants, though she still wore small silver earrings. “There should be something from the dentist.”

Daniel found the envelope and placed it near her phone. Then he opened the refrigerator. “What can I do?”

“Cut the peppers? And see if the chicken smells okay.”

“That’s an alarming assignment.”

“It’s from Monday. It’s fine.”

He sniffed the container with exaggerated caution, making Mara laugh despite herself. While she heated oil in a skillet, he sliced two bell peppers on the wooden cutting board. They talked in pieces: her meeting that should have been an email, the road construction near his office, whether they had enough detergent for the weekend.

The smoke alarm chirped once when the pan grew too hot.

“Not again,” Daniel said, waving a dish towel beneath it.

Mara turned down the burner and opened the window over the sink. Cool air carried in the smell of wet pavement. “We really need to replace that thing.”

“You said that last week.”

“We said that last week.”

He conceded the point and added it to the shared grocery list on his phone.

They cooked the chicken with peppers, soy sauce, and the last of a jar of chili crisp. Daniel set out bowls while Mara wiped sauce from the stovetop. Before sitting down, she filled the cat’s dish; the cat had been circling their ankles in patient outrage.

At the table, Daniel tasted the rice and nodded. “Better than takeout.”

“Cheaper, anyway.”

They ate while the dishwasher hummed from the previous night’s load. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Mara reached across the table for the chili crisp, and Daniel slid it toward her without looking up, already telling her about a dog he had seen riding in the passenger seat of a pickup truck.


By six-thirty, the house smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the sink rinsing rice while her husband, Daniel, came in through the garage, set his laptop bag beside the shoe rack, and loosened his tie.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Not terrible until the bridge.” He kissed her cheek, then opened the refrigerator. “What are we making?”

“Chicken bowls. Can you cut the peppers?”

Daniel washed his hands and found the cutting board in the dishwasher, still clean from the previous night’s cycle. He unloaded a few plates first, stacking them in the cabinet while Maya measured water into the rice cooker. The machine clicked on with a cheerful beep.

Their mail sat in a crooked pile near the fruit bowl. Daniel nodded toward it. “Electric bill came.”

“Higher than last month?”

“Probably. We’ve been running the air all week.”

Maya sighed and stirred cumin into the chicken sizzling on the stove. Outside, a lawn mower started somewhere down the block. Their dog, Penny, lifted her head from the kitchen rug, decided it was not important, and went back to sleep.

Daniel sliced red and yellow peppers, pushing the seeds into a neat pile. “I can call the utility company tomorrow about the budget plan.”

“Thanks. And we’re almost out of coffee.”

He added it to the shared grocery list on his phone. “Coffee, yogurt, dog food.”

“Dish soap,” Maya said.

They moved around each other without much thought—Daniel carrying scraps to the trash as Maya reached for bowls, Maya opening the drawer before he asked for a wooden spoon. He warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, watching their edges blister.

At the table, they assembled dinner with rice, chicken, peppers, salsa, and the last of an avocado. Daniel told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Maya described a student who had finally turned in three missing assignments.

Penny settled beneath their chairs, hopeful for dropped chicken. The dishwasher hummed behind them, and the evening felt ordinary, which, after a long Tuesday, was exactly what they wanted.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Daniel, searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the milk,” Mara said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“The other milk.”

Daniel moved the almond milk and found the container. “We own too many milks.”

“We own two.”

He set the rice beside the stove and loosened his tie. Their house, a narrow two-story in Ohio, still held the chill from the rainy afternoon. Near the back door, Daniel’s damp shoes rested on an old dish towel. Mara had left her work bag on a dining chair, along with an unopened envelope from the electric company.

Daniel heated oil in the skillet while Mara finished the peppers and chopped an onion. They moved around each other without much thought: she passed him the cutting board; he opened the drawer before she asked for a wooden spoon.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

He laughed. “Productive.”

“And your day?”

“Printer broke again. Luis fixed it by unplugging it, which apparently no one else had considered.”

The skillet hissed when Mara tipped in the vegetables. Daniel added soy sauce to the rice and stirred it in a second pan. From the living room came the low murmur of the local news, followed by a commercial they had heard all week.

“Trash goes out tonight,” Mara said.

“I know.”

“You said that last Tuesday.”

“And eventually, the trash went out.”

She gave him a look, then smiled despite herself.

They scrambled two eggs into the rice and divided dinner between mismatched blue bowls. Daniel filled water glasses while Mara wiped the counter and clipped the electric bill to the refrigerator with a magnet.

At the table, they talked about whether to call his mother that weekend and what groceries they needed. Outside, a car passed on the wet street. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the heat clicked on, and they ate while the peppers were still hot.


By six-thirty, Lena was standing at the kitchen counter in her socks, slicing bell peppers while the rice cooker clicked softly behind her. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of the tortillas you like,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got the flour ones.”

“That’s fine. Did you get cilantro?”

Marcus paused.

Lena looked up from the cutting board. “You forgot the cilantro.”

“I remembered the limes.”

“Close enough.”

He loosened his tie and began sorting the mail: electric bill, grocery circular, a postcard from the dentist. Their dog, Penny, circled his knees until he filled her water bowl and dropped two ice cubes into it, as he did every evening.

They had planned tacos because they were quick. Lena pushed the peppers into a hot skillet, and Marcus opened a can of black beans, rinsing them in the colander. The exhaust fan hummed. Somewhere down the block, a lawn mower started, though the light outside was already fading.

“How was your meeting?” Lena asked.

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

She laughed. “Productive.”

“And your day?”

“Three people called out. I ate lunch at my desk.”

Marcus warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. One edge caught fire, and he blew it out before Lena could reach for it.

“That one’s yours,” she said.

“Chef’s privilege.”

While the vegetables cooked, Lena packed leftover rice into a container for tomorrow’s lunch. Marcus wiped the small kitchen table, moving a stack of unopened magazines to the spare chair. He set out plates and poured seltzer into two mismatched glasses.

They assembled their tacos at the table, passing salsa and shredded cheese back and forth. Penny settled beneath them, hopeful and alert.

“Trash goes out tonight,” Lena said.

“I know.”

“You said that last week.”

Marcus took a bite of the burned tortilla. “I’ll do it after dinner.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a bin toward the curb. Inside, the dishwasher waited to be unloaded, the mail remained unopened, and for a few quiet minutes, neither of them hurried.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Elena stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Mark rinsed rice in a metal strainer. His tie hung over the back of a chair, and her laptop bag was still on the floor beside the pantry.

“Did you call the plumber?” Elena asked.

Mark paused. “I emailed him.”

“That means no.”

“It means I’m waiting for a reply.”

She smiled and scraped the pepper into the skillet. Oil hissed, carrying the smell of garlic through the kitchen. Above the sink, the faucet gave its familiar slow drip.

Mark set the rice cooker on and opened the refrigerator. “We have half a lime and three kinds of mustard.”

“Check the drawer.”

He found two limes beneath a bag of carrots. “I take back everything I’ve said about your produce system.”

“It’s not a system. Things go where they fit.”

Their old dog, Penny, wandered in at the sound of the refrigerator and sat hopefully between them. Mark gave her a carrot end. Elena added chicken to the pan, then stepped aside so he could reach the spice cabinet.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only six?”

Elena laughed. “How was traffic?”

“Bad near the bridge. Somebody lost a mattress.”

He squeezed lime into a bowl and mixed it with sour cream while Elena stirred the chicken and peppers. The dishwasher hummed, though one mug on the counter had missed the load. Mail lay unopened beside a grocery receipt, and a clean dish towel waited to be folded.

When the rice cooker clicked, Mark spooned rice into two chipped blue bowls. Elena divided the skillet between them and carried both bowls to the small table by the window.

“Plumber tomorrow,” Mark said, raising his glass.

“Actually call.”

“Actually call,” he agreed.

Penny settled beneath the table. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb, and inside, they ate while the faucet kept time.


By six fifteen, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. Outside, a delivery truck groaned away from the curb, leaving the street quiet again.

“Did you feed the cat?” she called.

Mark came in from the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. “I thought you did.”

They both looked toward the hallway. Pepper appeared, sat neatly on the rug, and gave a small, accusing cry.

“I’ll do it,” Mark said. He set the mail beside the fruit bowl and opened the pantry. “Also, we’re out of her usual food, so she’s getting the chicken one.”

“She’ll survive.”

Lena rinsed the rice while Mark filled Pepper’s dish. He had stopped at the store for broccoli and soy sauce, but he also pulled out a carton of ice cream.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“It was on the private list.”

She smiled and handed him a cutting board. “You can make yourself useful.”

They moved around each other in the practiced way they had developed over eight years in the small Ohio house. Mark chopped broccoli while Lena sliced leftover chicken. The dishwasher hummed beneath the counter, and a local radio host discussed road construction on the interstate.

“How was the meeting?” Mark asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“What about your day?”

He shrugged. “Fixed the printer twice. Same printer.”

The pan hissed when Lena added the chicken. Mark opened the back door for a minute because the kitchen fan was rattling again. Cool air came in, carrying the smell of someone’s fireplace.

They ate at the table under the window, with soy sauce between them and unopened mail pushed to one side. Mark mentioned the electric bill. Lena reminded him that the recycling had to go out.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers while she washed the pan. Pepper circled their ankles, hopeful despite having eaten.

“I’ll take the bins out,” Mark said.

“I’ll start the coffee for tomorrow.”

Nothing about the evening was remarkable, but by seven thirty the kitchen was clean, lunch was packed, and the house felt settled around them.


By six fifteen, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect Mara at the counter, still wearing her office cardigan. She sliced a bell pepper while her husband, Daniel, stood at the stove coaxing two chicken breasts from the skillet without setting off the smoke alarm.

“Fan’s on,” he said, noticing her glance toward the ceiling.

“It always says it’s on.”

“It’s making a noise.”

“So does the refrigerator, and I don’t trust that either.”

Daniel smiled and lowered the heat. They had lived in the Ohio townhouse for four years, long enough to know which cabinet door sagged and which burner ran hot. Mara nudged the trash can closed with her foot. The mail lay beside the fruit bowl: a grocery flyer, a water bill, and a postcard from a roofing company.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet no one had opened.” She tipped the peppers into the pan. “Yours?”

“Evan called in sick, so I covered the front desk until lunch. Also, we’re out of coffee.”

“We’re not out. There’s decaf.”

Daniel looked at her.

“Fine,” she said. “We’re out.”

While the chicken rested, he filled two glasses from the filter pitcher. Mara warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. The dog, Benny, stationed himself between them until Daniel pointed toward the hallway.

“Go lie down.”

Benny moved three feet and sat again.

They assembled tacos at the small kitchen table, passing shredded cheese and salsa back and forth. Daniel mentioned that the upstairs toilet had started running again. Mara said she would text the plumber they had used last winter. Then she remembered the laundry in the washer.

“I’ll move it after we eat,” Daniel said.

“You said that Tuesday.”

“And eventually, I did.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a recycling bin to the curb. Mara took the first bite and closed her eyes briefly.

“Too spicy?” Daniel asked.

“No,” she said. “Just good.”

For a minute, neither of them spoke. The dishwasher hummed behind them, Benny sighed under the table, and dinner settled into the familiar quiet of home.


At six fifteen, Mara set her laptop on the entryway table and found Daniel in the kitchen, still wearing his office badge. A grocery bag leaned against his leg while he studied a package of chicken as if it contained difficult instructions.

“Did you get rice?” she asked, slipping off her shoes.

He pointed to the pantry. “We had half a bag. I checked before I left.”

“That’s growth.”

“I also bought broccoli without being reminded.”

Mara laughed and washed her hands. Their house, a narrow two-story outside Columbus, was quiet except for the furnace and the dog’s nails clicking across the floor. Through the window above the sink, the backyard was already dark.

Daniel trimmed the chicken while Mara rinsed the rice. They moved around each other with the practiced courtesy of people who knew exactly which drawer the other needed. When she reached for the cutting board, he passed it without looking.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody opened.”

“Productive.”

“How was traffic?”

“Accident by the exit. I listened to the same news story three times.”

The dog, Otis, stationed himself between them, hopeful. Mara dropped a broccoli stem into his bowl. Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a vegetable,” she said.

“It’s still begging.”

While the rice simmered, Daniel seasoned the chicken and carried it to the grill on the back porch. Mara wiped the counter, sorted the mail, and called through the screen door that the electric bill looked high. He answered that they could lower the thermostat at night. She reminded him he was always cold.

When he returned, smelling faintly of smoke, she had set out plates and two glasses of water. He sliced the chicken; she spooned rice beside it and divided the broccoli evenly, then moved two pieces from her plate to his.

They sat at the small kitchen table beneath the calendar crowded with appointments. For a moment, neither spoke.

“This is good,” Mara said.

Daniel nodded. “The broccoli was my idea.”

“Of course it was.”

Otis sighed under the table, and they began discussing whether the dishwasher had been unloaded.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at itself. Maya stood at the counter in her socks, slicing a red bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. Her husband, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a stack of mail.

“Anything important?” she asked.

He flipped through the envelopes. “Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something determined to refinance a house we already own.”

“Put the bill by my keys. I’ll pay it tomorrow.”

Daniel hung his jacket over a chair, then noticed it and moved it to the coat hook before Maya could say anything. He washed his hands and opened the refrigerator.

“What can I do?”

“Chicken’s in the bottom drawer. Cut it into strips?”

He took out the package and found the cutting board they used for meat. While he worked, Maya heated oil in the wide skillet. They compared their days in pieces: her staff meeting had run long; his afternoon call had been interrupted by a fire drill. Neither story required much explanation.

The dishwasher beeped. Daniel opened it, discovered clean plates, and began unloading them between trips to the stove. Maya added onions and peppers to the pan, filling the kitchen with a sweet, sharp smell.

“Did you call your mom?” he asked.

“On my lunch break. Her appointment went fine.”

“Good.”

A school bus groaned down the street, late on its route. Daniel set two bowls on the table and moved a pile of unopened catalogs to the recycling bin. Maya stirred in the chicken and sauce, then tasted it.

“Needs salt.”

“It always needs salt when you say it doesn’t.”

She handed him the spoon. He tasted, nodded, and added a pinch.

When the rice cooker switched to warm, they filled their bowls and sat across from each other beneath the pendant light. Daniel reached for his phone, paused, and turned it facedown.

“Tomorrow,” Maya said, “we should use the leftover peppers.”

“Omelets?”

“Works for me.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, they began eating while the skillet cooled on the stove.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark, reflecting the room instead of the backyard. Daniel stood at the counter chopping a red pepper while his wife, Marissa, rinsed rice in a metal strainer. Their mail lay in a crooked pile beside the fruit bowl—two bills, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist.

“How was traffic?” Marissa asked.

“Slow by the bridge. Somebody lost a mattress.”

“On the road?”

“Right in the middle lane.”

She shook the water from the rice. “That feels like a Monday problem.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Even worse.”

Daniel tipped the pepper into a skillet with onions. The oil snapped, and he lowered the heat. Marissa measured water into a saucepan, then opened the refrigerator and frowned at the shelves.

“Did you use the last lime?”

“I put half of one in the door.”

She found it tucked behind the mustard, dry at the edges but usable. While the rice came to a boil, she sliced the lime and mixed sour cream with hot sauce for the tacos. Daniel added ground turkey to the skillet and broke it apart with a wooden spoon.

From the hallway came the low mechanical hum of the dryer.

“Are those towels still going?” he asked.

“They were damp when I checked.”

“I’ll fold them after dinner.”

Marissa glanced at him. “You said that yesterday.”

“And tonight I intend to restore my reputation.”

She smiled and set two plates on the small table by the window. Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs until their edges blistered. They talked about a meeting Marissa had endured, the neighbor’s recycling bin rolling into their driveway, and whether they needed coffee before the weekend.

When everything was ready, they carried the skillet, rice, shredded cheese, and sauce to the table. Daniel switched off the bright overhead light, leaving the softer lamp above the sink.

Marissa took the first tortilla. “Towels after dinner.”

“Towels after dinner,” he agreed.

Outside, a car passed on the wet street. Inside, they began assembling tacos, comparing their days between ordinary bites.