Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in the open refrigerator door with her coat still on, considering the half package of ground turkey, the wilting scallions, the eggs.

"Tacos?" she called when she heard the door.

"We had tacos Sunday." Ben set his keys in the dish by the mail. "What about that rice thing you do."

"With the egg on top?"

"That one."

She handed him the scallions and the cutting board, and he rolled up his sleeves at the counter while she started the rice cooker. They had done this enough times that the choreography was mostly unspoken, though he still asked where the sesame oil was, and she still told him it was where it always was, second shelf, behind the vinegar.

"There's not much turkey," she said, pressing it into the pan with a wooden spoon.

"There's enough. Put more rice."

The kitchen got loud with the sizzle, and Ben turned the radio down. He fried two eggs in a separate pan, watching them carefully, because Dana liked the yolk runny and he liked his cooked through, and mixing that up had caused a genuine argument in 2019 that they now referenced as a joke.

They ate at the table, though they'd meant to eat on the couch. Dana asked about his mother's appointment. Ben said the doctor wanted more tests but didn't seem worried, or at least didn't act worried, which wasn't the same thing. Dana said no, it wasn't.

He ate faster than she did, as always, and got up to start the dishes while she was still going. She told him about a coworker who had cc'd the entire department on a complaint about the printer.

"On purpose?"

"That's what I can't figure out."

He laughed with his hands in the water. She brought her plate over, and the light outside went blue, then dark, and neither of them got up to turn on the lamp for a while.


Dana got home first, which meant she chose. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, counting: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, three eggs, a heel of Parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"I could do that." Mark came into the kitchen, set his keys in the bowl, and looked over her shoulder as if he might see something she'd missed. "Is the rice the good rice or the boxed stuff?"

"Boxed. Sorry."

"Boxed is fine."

He filled a saucepan while she pulled the beans out and started snapping the ends off over the sink. They had a system, unspoken and slightly inefficient: he handled anything with a timer, she handled anything with a knife. The kitchen was narrow enough that they kept touching, hip to hip, and neither of them mentioned it.

"Wendy's getting a dog," Dana said.

"A real dog or one of those—"

"A real dog. A shepherd mix."

"In that apartment?"

"That's what I said." She shredded the chicken with her fingers, dropping the good pieces into a bowl and the gristly ones into the trash. "She says she'll walk it twice a day."

Mark made a noise that meant he doubted it. He salted the water late, which she noticed and let go.

They ate at the table because they'd decided in March to stop eating on the couch, and mostly they'd held to it. The beans were a little squeaky. Mark grated the Parmesan over his rice and then over hers without asking, because he knew.

"This is good," he said.

"It's fine."

"It's good."

Afterward she washed and he dried, and he put the plates in the wrong cabinet, and she moved them, and neither of them said anything about that either.


Marguerite got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the chicken thighs before they turned.

"Sheet pan?" Dev called from the entryway, still working one shoe off with the toe of the other.

"Sheet pan." She was already halving small potatoes on the cutting board, the good knife, the one they'd bought after the wedding when everything felt like an investment. "There's half a lemon in the door."

He came in and stood at her shoulder a moment, not touching her, just looking at the potatoes. "Those are getting a little soft."

"They're fine. They're potatoes."

"I'm just saying." He took the lemon out and rolled it on the counter, then found the paprika, the garlic powder, the salt in its ugly ceramic pig. The oven had been on since she walked in; the kitchen was already too warm for April, so Dev cracked the window over the sink and the sound of a neighbor's leaf blower came in with the air.

They worked around each other. She oiled the pan, he cut the broccoli, and there was a brief negotiation about whether the broccoli went in at the start or halfway through. Halfway, they agreed, because last time it had gone gray at the edges and Dev had said nothing, loudly.

Forty minutes later they ate at the small table with the mail pushed to one side. Dev had opened a beer and poured half into a second glass for her without asking. The chicken skin had crisped unevenly.

"Better than last time," she said.

"The potatoes were fine."

"I told you."

He asked about her Thursday. She said Thursday was going to be bad, and described the reasons, and he listened with his fork down. Afterward he washed, she dried, and they left the sheet pan to soak until morning.


Marcy got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs, most of a block of cheddar.

By the time Dev came in, shaking rain off his sleeves, she had the beans in a colander and a pot of water heating.

"Chicken again?" he said, not really complaining.

"Chicken and rice. There's enough for both of us if you don't take the whole thigh."

"I always take the whole thigh."

He hung his jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, which she noticed and let go. Then he washed his hands and started pulling meat off the carcass with his fingers, dropping the bones into the pot she'd meant for the rice.

"That's the rice pot."

"It's a stock pot now."

She got out the smaller saucepan without arguing. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other, and they'd gotten good at it over eleven years — she stepped back when he reached for the salt, he angled sideways so she could get to the stove.

The beans went into a skillet with butter and too much garlic, the way Dev liked them. Marcy tasted one, decided it needed lemon, found no lemon, added vinegar instead.

They ate at the table with the television off, which was a rule they kept about half the time. Dev told her about a coworker who'd backed a company van into a light pole. Marcy said her sister had called twice and she hadn't called back.

"You should call her."

"I know."

He took the last of the green beans off her plate without asking. She let him. Outside the rain kept on, and neither of them got up to close the blinds.


Marisol got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the rest of the roast chicken from Sunday. She pulled it out of the fridge and stood there with the door open, looking at what else there was: half a bag of green beans, a lemon going soft on one end, rice in the cupboard.

Dev came in at six-twenty with his laptop bag still on his shoulder. "It's freezing out there."

"It's forty-one degrees."

"That's freezing for October." He set the bag down by the stairs where she'd asked him not to set it, and she let it go. He washed his hands and picked up the knife she'd left out. "You want these trimmed or just the ends?"

"Just the ends. I'm not doing anything fancy."

He snapped the ends off in handfuls the way his mother did, which was faster than trimming but left some of them long. Marisol shredded the chicken with two forks, standing over the cutting board, eating a piece and then another piece.

"There'll be none left," Dev said.

"There'll be plenty."

The rice took twenty minutes, so they had twenty minutes. He asked about her meeting with the district people and she said it was fine, it was a lot of nodding, and he said that sounded about right. She asked if he'd called the dentist. He hadn't. He said he'd do it tomorrow morning, and she said write it down, and he wrote it on the pad by the microwave.

They ate at the table because Dev didn't like eating on the couch, though Marisol would have. She squeezed the lemon over the beans. It was fine. It was a Tuesday.

"This is good," he said.

"It's leftovers."

"It's good leftovers."

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they were done by seven-fifteen, and there was still most of an evening left.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at a package of chicken thighs, half a bag of green beans, and a lemon that had gone slightly soft at one end.

"Chicken and rice," she said when Marcus came through the door twenty minutes later. "I already started the rice."

"You start it in the pot or the thing?"

"The thing. I don't trust the pot."

He hung his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair instead of the hook, and she let it go. He washed his hands, then took over the green beans, snapping the ends off and dropping them into a colander while she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika because paprika was what was in front.

"Do we have any of that mustard left?" he asked.

"The grainy one? There's a little."

"I could do a thing with the mustard."

"Then do a thing with the mustard."

He scraped what was left of the jar into a bowl with some olive oil and a squeeze of the soft lemon, and whisked it with a fork while the chicken went into the skillet skin-side down and started popping. Dana turned on the fan over the stove, which only helped a little. Marcus told her about a coworker who'd been out three days and came back insisting it wasn't COVID. She told him she'd called about the dishwasher and they said Thursday between noon and four, which meant one of them had to be home.

"I can move my one o'clock," he said.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side. The chicken was good; the rice was slightly underdone in the middle, which they agreed was fine. Marcus took the beans he didn't finish and put them in a small container for lunch.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in from the garage, keys still in her hand.

"Traffic on 35 again," she said. "There's construction near the exit now."

"There's always construction." Marcus had the cutting board out, halfway through a zucchini. He was cutting the rounds too thick, the way he always did, and Dana didn't say anything about it, though she noticed. She set her bag on the chair and washed her hands at the sink beside him.

"Do we have the sesame oil still?"

"Front of the cabinet. I used it Sunday."

She found it behind the vinegar instead and held it up without comment. Marcus laughed and slid the zucchini into the pan, where it hissed and settled. Dana pulled two eggs from the carton and cracked them into a bowl, whisking with a fork while she leaned against the counter.

"Bill from the co-op called about the fence," Marcus said. "He wants to split the cost with us, but only the back section."

"That's the section that's fine."

"That's what I said."

"So what did he say?"

"He said he'd think about it." Marcus shook soy sauce over the pan, guessing at the amount. "I told him we'd talk about it this weekend."

Dana poured the eggs in and stirred until they scrambled up into the vegetables. Marcus got the plates, the mismatched ones, and scooped rice onto each while she divided the rest. They ate at the kitchen table with the overhead light on and the window black behind them, the radiator ticking.

"Needs more soy sauce," Dana said.

"I thought so too." He got up and brought the bottle over and they both used it.

Afterward she rinsed and he loaded, and there was an argument, brief and comfortable, about whether the pan could go in the dishwasher. It went in the sink to soak. They left the light on over the stove.


By six-fifteen the kitchen smelled like garlic, mostly because Dana had gotten distracted by a text from her sister and let it sit in the pan a little too long. She scraped it out and started over, lowering the heat this time.

"There's only half a box of penne," Marcus said, holding it up to the window light like he was appraising a gem. "Do we want to do rice instead?"

"Penne's fine. There's rice in there from Sunday anyway, and I'm not eating that."

He filled the pot at the sink and set it on the back burner, then leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. "You want the sausage or should I do the frozen chicken?"

"Sausage. The chicken takes forever and I'm starving."

He got it out, peeled the casings off two links, and broke the meat up in the pan with the flat of a wooden spoon. Dana pulled the last of a bag of spinach out of the crisper, decided it was still good, and rinsed it in the colander. She dumped a can of crushed tomatoes into the pan when the sausage had browned, and Marcus salted the pasta water without asking, which was one of the small things she'd stopped noticing years ago and then started noticing again.

They ate at the table, because Marcus had a rule about the couch on weeknights that Dana broke maybe twice a month.

"This is better than last time," he said.

"Last time I used the jarred stuff."

"I know."

He told her about a coworker who'd printed four hundred copies of the wrong document. She told him her sister was thinking about moving to Charlotte, which meant she wasn't. They finished, and he washed while she dried, and the whole thing had taken forty minutes.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, doing the math: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, the heel of a block of parmesan.

"Chicken again," she said when Marcus came in, dropping his keys in the dish by the door.

"That's fine." He hung his jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, the way he always did, and she let it go the way she always did. "Is there rice?"

"There's orzo."

"Orzo's fine."

He filled the pot and salted the water while she pulled the chicken off the bones, standing at the counter and eating a strip of skin because it was the best part and nobody was going to stop her. Marcus trimmed the beans, tossing the bad ones toward the compost bin and missing twice.

"Your sister called me," he said.

"About the thing in June?"

"She wants to know if we're driving or flying."

Dana pushed the chicken into a pan with a little butter. "What did you tell her?"

"That I'd ask you."

"Good answer."

The orzo boiled over. Marcus lifted the pot, swore mildly, wiped the stovetop with a paper towel while it was still hot. Dana grated cheese over everything and they ate at the kitchen table with the overhead light on, because they'd never gotten around to putting a bulb in the fixture over the table.

"It's better than Sunday," Marcus said.

"It's the butter."

They talked about the driveway, and whether the neighbor's dog was actually barking more or if it just seemed that way in the cold. Marcus finished first and sat there with his fork down, waiting. When she was done he cleared both plates without being asked, and she wiped the table, and that was dinner.


The rice cooker clicked to warm just as Daniel came in from the garage, still in his work boots, tracking a little gravel onto the mat.

"Don't," Maya said, without turning around. "I swept."

He backed up, toed the boots off, and left them by the door. "There's rice?"

"There's rice. I thought we'd do the chicken thighs before they turn."

He came to the stove and looked into the pan where she was pushing sliced onions around in oil. "Those are getting brown."

"They're supposed to. Get me the soy sauce and that jar of garlic."

He opened the fridge and stood there with the door hanging, scanning. "The minced stuff or the whole cloves?"

"Minced. I'm not peeling anything tonight."

He set both on the counter anyway and started tearing the plastic off the chicken. He salted it heavily, the way he liked, and she didn't say anything, which was its own kind of concession. While it seared he ran water over a bag of green beans and dumped them in a bowl with a splash of water and a plate on top, then put the whole arrangement in the microwave for four minutes.

"Steaming them," he said.

"I know what you're doing."

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table had mail on it. Maya put her phone face down beside her plate, then picked it up twice anyway to check a text from her sister about a birthday party in Ohio.

"We'd have to fly," she said.

"We'd have to fly in March."

"So no."

"So probably no."

The chicken was good. The beans were watery. Daniel ate three of them and pushed the rest to the edge of his plate, and she reached over with her fork and took two.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they talked about the neighbor's dog, and whether the recycling went out Tuesday or Wednesday, and it was Wednesday.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in through the garage, still holding her keys.

"There's chicken thawed," Miguel said from the stove. "I didn't know what you wanted with it."

"Whatever's fastest." She dropped her bag on the chair that had become, over four years, the bag chair. "I have that call at eight."

"With Priya?"

"With Priya's boss, which is worse." She opened the fridge and stood there in the cold light. "We have half a bag of green beans and something in a Tupperware I'm afraid of."

"That's the chili from Sunday."

"It's Thursday, Miguel."

He held out his hand without looking away from the pan, and she passed him the container. He pried the lid and sniffed, made a face that was not quite decisive, and set it on the counter. "Beans, then."

She rinsed them in the colander while he salted the chicken thighs and laid them skin-down in the cast iron. The kitchen filled with that immediate popping sound, and he stepped back, wiping his palms on the dish towel he kept over his shoulder.

"Trim the ends," he said.

"I always trim the ends."

"Sometimes you don't."

They ate at the table because Dana had insisted, months ago, that they stop eating on the couch, and it had mostly stuck. The chicken skin was good; the beans were slightly underdone, which neither mentioned. Miguel told her about a coworker's plan to buy a boat. Dana said the man didn't have a boat problem, he had a divorce problem, and Miguel laughed with his mouth full and then said, "That's dark."

"It's Thursday," she said again.

At ten of eight she carried her plate to the sink and rinsed it, and he said he'd get the rest. She kissed the top of his head on her way past, and he reached back without turning around, catching her wrist for a second before letting go.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator in her work clothes, holding the door with one hip, and inventoried: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, three eggs, a wedge of parmesan.

"Chicken and beans," she called when she heard the front door.

"Rice?" Marcus said, dropping his keys in the bowl.

"We're out. There's that box of couscous."

"Couscous is fine." He came into the kitchen still wearing his jacket and looked over her shoulder into the fridge, the way he always did, as though he might find something she hadn't. "Beans are kind of sad."

"They're fine if you cook them hard. Trim the ends."

He took off the jacket, hung it on the back of a chair instead of in the closet, and washed his hands. She filled a kettle for the couscous. For a few minutes neither of them said anything. The radio was on low, the local station, someone talking about a school board vote.

"How was the thing with Priya?" she asked.

"Moved to Thursday." He was snapping the ends off the beans with his thumbnail instead of using the knife. "She had a dentist thing."

"You're going to be there all night doing that."

"I like doing it this way."

Dana pulled the chicken apart with two forks, then gave up and used her hands. She put the meat in a pan with a little oil and let it crisp. The beans went in a skillet with butter and garlic and too much pepper, which was how Marcus liked them.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side. He asked if she'd called about the water heater. She said she'd left a message. He said he'd follow up tomorrow, and she said okay, and let him.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the pasta because there was half a box of penne in the cabinet and a jar of sauce behind the canned beans. She filled the pot, salted the water more than the box said to, and turned on the little radio on the windowsill, the one that only got two stations clearly.

Mark came in at six twenty with his tie already in his pocket. He kissed the side of her head, looked into the pot, and said, "Is there anything green?"

"There's spinach in the crisper. It might be slimy."

He checked. It was mostly fine. He rinsed a handful, shook it out, and set it on the cutting board while she stirred. "You want it wilted in, or on the side?"

"In. Less dishes."

He found the good garlic near the back of the bowl, smashed two cloves with the flat of the knife, and dropped them into the sauce. Dana had never used garlic with jarred sauce before she met him, and now she couldn't not.

They ate at the table because they'd made a rule about it in January and were still mostly keeping it. Mark grated parmesan directly over his bowl until Dana said that was enough for both of them.

"Your mother called the landline," she said. "She wants to know about the Fourth."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you'd call her back."

He nodded, twirling penne, which doesn't work but he did it anyway. "The spinach was on the edge."

"I said it might be."

Outside somebody's dog was barking at nothing. Dana got up for the water pitcher, refilled both glasses, and sat back down. There were eight minutes of quiet chewing, then a plan for who was washing, then the sound of the faucet.


Marcus got home first, which meant he decided. He stood in front of the open refrigerator with his tie loosened, weighing the half-package of ground turkey against the eggs. The turkey would go bad tomorrow.

"Tacos?" he called when he heard the front door.

"Sure." Priya set her bag on the chair that had become, over four years in the apartment, the bag chair. "Do we have tortillas?"

"Corn ones. The ones you don't like."

"I don't hate them. They just fall apart."

She kicked off her shoes and came into the kitchen, reaching past him for the cutting board. He handed her half an onion still in its skin, and she took it without comment, the way people do after enough repetitions. The skillet ticked as it heated. Marcus broke up the turkey with the back of a wooden spoon while Priya diced, scraping the onion into a bowl with the flat of the knife.

"How was the thing with Dana?"

"Postponed. Again." She got out the cheese and started grating it directly onto a plate. "Third time. At this point I think she's just avoiding the conversation."

"Probably." He shook taco seasoning into the pan, most of a packet, then added water from the tap in the measuring cup they never actually measured with. "Do we have lettuce or is that gone?"

"It's gone. I looked yesterday."

They ate at the small table with the TV on across the room, muted, a basketball game neither of them was following. Priya put her taco together, watched the shell split, and ate it with a fork. Marcus laughed and she pointed the fork at him.

"You bought them," she said.

"I did."

After, he washed and she dried, because she claimed he never got the pans clean and he claimed the towels always ended up soaked. Both were true. The whole thing took eleven minutes.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, the heel of a block of parmesan.

"Chicken again," she said when Marcus came in through the garage door, twenty minutes later, setting his keys in the dish by the microwave.

"Chicken's fine." He looked over her shoulder. "We should use those beans."

"That's what I was thinking."

He changed out of his work clothes while she started the water for pasta, and when he came back in sweatpants he took over the beans without being asked, snapping the ends off into the compost bin they kept under the sink and never emptied often enough. Dana pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the pieces onto the cutting board, eating a strip of the skin.

"Don't do that standing up," Marcus said. "You'll ruin your appetite."

"It's one piece of skin."

The kitchen radio was on the classical station, which neither of them particularly liked but which stayed tuned there because it had come that way with the house. Marcus turned it down when the pasta water started rattling the lid.

They ate at the kitchen table, not the dining room, which was where the laundry got folded. Dana had grated too much parmesan and there was a small drift of it beside her plate. Marcus told her about a coworker who kept microwaving fish. She told him her sister had called about Thanksgiving, and they agreed to think about it, meaning they would not think about it until October.

Afterward Marcus washed and Dana dried, and they put the leftover beans in a container that would sit in the refrigerator until Thursday, when one of them would throw them out.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs, a heel of parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Is there rice?" Marcus said, toeing off his shoes in the hall.

There was, in the back of the cabinet behind the lentils they never used. He filled the pot with water while she pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the skin into the trash and the meat into a bowl. The kitchen was small enough that they had to negotiate around each other, a choreography they'd worked out over eleven years and three apartments.

"You want the beans roasted or just—"

"Just the pan," she said. "Roasting takes forty minutes and I'm hungry now."

He trimmed the ends off with a paring knife, working faster than she would have, and threw them into a skillet with olive oil and too much salt, which was how he always did it and which she had stopped mentioning years ago because she'd come to prefer it that way.

They ate at the table because Dana had a rule about the couch on weekdays, though it was a rule she broke roughly one Wednesday in three. Marcus told her about a coworker who'd been fired over expense reports. She told him her sister had called about Thanksgiving, and he said, "Already?" and she said, "That's what I said."

The beans were good. The rice was slightly underdone in a way neither of them commented on.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and when the last pot was in the rack she folded the towel over the oven handle and said, "That was fine, right? That was a fine dinner."

"It was fine," he said.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs, a wedge of Parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Did we have that Monday?" Mark hung his keys on the hook, then took them back off, because he'd need them in the morning and always forgot.

"Monday was tacos."

"Then yes. Fine. Great." He came into the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink, elbowing her gently aside. "There's rice in the freezer, I think. From when I made too much."

There was. Dana pried the frozen brick out of its container while Mark shredded the chicken with two forks, standing over the cutting board, eating a piece as he went.

"The beans are questionable," she said.

He looked. "They're fine. Trim the ends."

She trimmed the ends and tossed them in a pan with olive oil and too much garlic, the way they both liked. Mark put on the radio, then turned it off when the host started laughing at his own joke. The kitchen filled with steam and the smell of garlic browning.

They ate at the table because Dana insisted on it, though Mark's laptop sat closed at his elbow like a dog waiting to be walked. He told her about the guy at work who kept scheduling meetings at 4:45. She told him her mother had called twice and left no message.

"That means she wants something."

"Obviously."

The beans were better than expected. The rice was slightly rubbery in the center, and neither of them mentioned it.

Afterward Mark washed, Dana dried, and they were done by seven.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to choose. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp, two eggs, a lemon that had gone hard on one side.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"We had that Monday," Marcus said. He set his keys in the bowl and came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. "What about the beans? They still good?"

She held up the bag. He squinted at it, then took it from her and shook it, as if that would tell him something.

"Fine," he said. "Trim them. I'll do the rice."

They worked around each other in the narrow galley, a choreography they'd stopped noticing years ago. Dana snapped the ends off the beans over the trash can while Marcus measured rice by feel, one cup, one and a half of water, a pinch of salt from the dish beside the stove. He turned on the little radio on top of the microwave, the local news station, then turned it down when the traffic report came on because neither of them was going anywhere.

"Did you call your mother back?" she asked.

"I texted her."

"That's not the same."

"It's the same amount of information."

She let it go. She pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, laying the pieces in a pan with a little water to steam them soft again. Marcus reached past her for the butter and their arms touched, and neither of them moved out of the way.

They ate at the small table by the window, plates on placemats, forks scraping. The beans were better than expected. Marcus finished first and sat with his hands around his water glass while Dana told him about a coworker's divorce.

"Huh," he said, at the right places.

Later he washed and she dried, and the kitchen light stayed on a while after.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the chicken thighs that had been thawing in the fridge since Sunday, when she'd been more ambitious about the week.

She had the oven going and the potatoes quartered by the time Marcus came in, still in his work fleece, carrying the mail.

"Something for you from the dentist," he said. "A reminder, probably."

"I already rescheduled."

He set the stack on the counter, went to the sink, washed his hands, and looked at the potatoes. "You want these with the skins on?"

"I already cut them."

"I know. I'm just asking if that's the plan."

"That's the plan."

He got out the olive oil and salt without being asked and tossed them on the sheet pan while she patted the chicken dry with a paper towel. They worked around each other in the small kitchen the way they had for eleven years, one stepping back when the other reached for the drawer.

"There's half a bag of green beans," he said, head in the fridge.

"Are they still good?"

He examined them. "Some of them."

"Do the good ones."

Everything went in the oven at 425 and they had twenty-five minutes, so Marcus watered the plant on the windowsill and Dana looked at her phone at the table until he said the thing about her sister's text, and she said she'd answer it tomorrow.

They ate at the table with the overhead light on because the lamp bulb had gone out and neither of them had replaced it. The chicken skin was crisp on top and pale underneath. The potatoes were better.

"This is good," he said.

"The beans are kind of rubbery."

"They're fine."

She let it go. He got up for the hot sauce, and she asked him to bring the salt too, and he did.


Marisol got home first, which meant the radio came on—the classical station, low, because she said the apartment felt haunted without noise. She set her bag on the chair that had become the bag chair and opened the refrigerator to survey what was left: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, a lemon.

Dev came in twenty minutes later with the mail and a look that meant the meeting had run long again.

"Chicken and beans?" she said.

"Is there rice?"

"There's rice if you make it."

He put the mail on the counter, unsorted, and got the pot down. He measured the rice into his palm instead of a cup, the way his mother did, and Marisol didn't comment, though privately she thought it explained a lot about the inconsistency.

She trimmed the beans while he ran water over the rice, and they traded the small news of the day in fragments. His car was making a sound again. Her coworker Rina was pregnant. The upstairs neighbor had apparently acquired a treadmill.

"That's what that is," Dev said.

"That's what that is."

The beans went into a skillet with oil and too much garlic, which was how she always did it and how he'd stopped protesting. He pulled the chicken apart with his fingers and put it in the oven on a sheet pan to warm, and they stood not quite in each other's way, the kitchen being narrow.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side. The rice was slightly underdone at the center, and neither of them said so.

"It's good," Dev said, and meant it enough.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and at eight-fifteen the treadmill started up overhead, and Marisol looked at the ceiling and laughed, and Dev handed her the skillet, still warm.


Marisol got home first, so she started the rice. Not the good rice, the plain white rice from the big plastic bin, because it was Tuesday and nobody had gone to the store since Saturday.

Devon came in around six-fifteen, smelling like the parking garage, and set his keys in the ceramic dish by the door.

"There's chicken thighs thawed," she said. "Or eggs."

"Chicken's fine." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink instead of the bathroom, which she'd stopped mentioning years ago. "Did the dryer finish?"

"I don't know. I turned it on and then I forgot about it."

He went and checked, came back and said the towels needed another cycle, and started them again. Then he took the chicken out of the fridge and looked at the package like it might have suggestions.

"Just salt and pepper," Marisol said. "There's that jar of paprika."

"The paprika's from the old apartment."

"It's paprika. It doesn't go bad, it just gets boring."

He used it anyway. She cut up half a head of cabbage that had been sitting in the crisper drawer since the previous week, still fine, only the outer leaves gone limp, and threw it in a pan with garlic and a splash of the rice vinegar. The kitchen got loud with two pans going and the vent fan rattling, and Devon reached over her to grab the tongs without asking, and she leaned back without looking to let him.

They ate at the small table because the coffee table had a stack of mail on it. The chicken was a little dry on one side. Marisol said so; Devon said he knew, he'd flipped it too late.

"It's good, though," she said, and meant it, and put more cabbage on his plate without asking.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and the towels finished, and neither of them went to get them.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at half a rotisserie chicken, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, and a lemon.

By the time Marcus came in, she had the beans in a colander and a pot of water heating.

"Pasta?" he asked, dropping his keys in the dish by the door.

"Chicken and beans. There's rice from Sunday."

"That rice is old."

"It's Thursday."

He came over and looked in the container, then smelled it, then shrugged and put it in the microwave. Dana moved the pot off the burner and set a skillet in its place instead, and Marcus reached around her for the olive oil without being asked, which she appreciated more than she said.

They worked in the narrow space between the counter and the island, bumping hips twice. Marcus shredded the chicken with two forks. Dana squeezed the lemon over the beans in the skillet, then salted them, then tasted one and salted them again.

"Too much garlic?" she asked, holding out a bean on the spatula.

He ate it off the metal. "No. More garlic, actually."

"There isn't any more garlic."

"Then it's perfect."

They ate at the kitchen table because the living room table had a stack of mail on it neither of them had dealt with. Marcus told her about a coworker who kept scheduling meetings at four forty-five. Dana said that was a war crime. She got up halfway through to get the hot sauce, and he held his plate out for some without looking up.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the skillet could go in the dishwasher. She lost, or gave in; it was hard to tell the difference after nine years. The kitchen light stayed on a while after they left it.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm at six-forty, which meant Daniel had started it too early again.

"It'll be gluey," Priya said, not really complaining, hip against the counter while she trimmed the ends off a bundle of green beans. She dropped them into a colander in handfuls.

"It'll be fine. I'll fluff it." He was standing at the stove with a pair of tongs, poking at chicken thighs that had been marinating in the fridge since Sunday in something he'd improvised—soy sauce, brown sugar, a lot of garlic. The skin was sticking. He worked the tongs underneath and the whole piece came loose with a satisfying tear.

"Did you turn the fan on?"

"Yes." He hadn't. He reached up and pressed the button, and the hood roared. "Now yes."

Priya rinsed the beans and shook the colander over the sink, hard, twice. She'd wanted to do something more with them, a lemon-butter thing, but it was Wednesday and she had a call at eight with the Singapore office. She dumped them in a skillet with olive oil and salt and covered it.

"Your mom called me," she said.

"About the thing in April."

"About the thing in April."

"You said we'd let her know."

"I said we'd let her know." She lifted the lid, let steam out, put it back.

They ate at the kitchen table, not the dining room, which had become the place where the laundry basket lived. Daniel had fluffed the rice and it was still gluey and neither of them said anything about it. The chicken was good. Priya took the last thigh after asking if he wanted it, and he said no, and then watched her eat it with mild regret.

"Leave the pans," she said, standing, checking the time on the microwave. "I'll get them after."

She didn't, and he did, and that was fine.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, most of a block of cheddar.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Sure." Marcus set his keys in the bowl by the door and came into the kitchen, loosening his tie without untying it, pulling the loop over his head the way she'd told him ruined them. "Did you eat lunch? You said you had that call at noon."

"I had a granola bar at three."

"That's not lunch."

"It's a bar of oats." She handed him the green beans. "Trim these. Some of them are questionable."

He rinsed them in the colander and started snapping ends off with his thumbnail, dropping the bad ones into the sink. Dana measured rice into the pot, then measured again because she'd lost count. The kitchen radio was on low, the local station doing traffic for a commute that was already over.

"Zoe called me," Marcus said. "She wants to know if we're coming to the thing in April."

"What thing?"

"The christening. Her sister's baby."

"Do we have to decide tonight?"

"No. I told her I'd ask you."

"Then you asked me." She shredded chicken with two forks, pulling it off the bones and into a bowl, saving the carcass out of habit even though she'd probably throw it away Thursday.

They ate at the kitchen table because the dining room table had a puzzle on it. Marcus put too much hot sauce on his and drank most of his water in one go. Dana told him about the call at noon, which had gone badly, and he said the right things at the right places without really disagreeing with anyone.

He washed. She dried. It took eleven minutes.


Dana got home first, so she started the rice. The cooker's lid was still crusted from Sunday, and she scrubbed it under hot water while the burner ticked, thinking about nothing in particular except that they were out of paper towels again.

Marcus came in at ten past six, still in his work boots, and paused at the mat.

"You can leave them on, I already tracked the hall," she said.

"Generous." He set a plastic bag on the counter. "Got the eggs. They only had the brown ones."

"That's fine."

"They're a dollar more."

"Marcus."

"I'm just reporting." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, elbowing her a little to get at the soap, and looked into the pan she'd started. "Are we doing the peppers?"

"If you cut them."

He got the cutting board down and the knife she was always telling him to stop putting in the dishwasher. The peppers were a little soft on one side; he trimmed those parts off and dropped them in the compost bin, which needed emptying, which he decided not to mention.

They worked around each other. She scrambled the eggs with too much butter, the way they both liked. He toasted the last four slices of bread and stood eating the crust of one over the sink.

"That was for dinner."

"I'm testing it."

They ate at the small table with the mail pushed to one end. Marcus told her about a guy at work who'd gotten his truck stuck in the loading yard, and she laughed at the part about the tow. She told him her sister called about Thanksgiving, and they agreed to decide later.

Afterward he rinsed and she loaded. The kitchen light hummed. They left the pan to soak and went to sit down, and neither of them turned on the television for a while.


Dana got home first, which meant the radio stayed on the classical station instead of switching to news. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the front door.

"There's rice?" Peter came into the kitchen unwinding his scarf. He looked at the counter, then at her. "You didn't start the rice."

"I just walked in."

He filled the pot at the tap, not measuring, the way he always did, and she didn't say anything about it, the way she always didn't. She trimmed the beans while he shredded the chicken with two forks, standing hip to hip at the counter because the kitchen was narrow and they had learned to work around each other years ago.

"Sara called," he said. "She wants to come for Thanksgiving. She's bringing the dog."

"The big one?"

"There's only one dog."

"It feels like more than one dog." Dana dumped the beans into a pan with butter and salt. "Fine. We'll put the rug in the basement."

They ate at the kitchen table with the mail pushed to one side, plates on placemats Dana's mother had given them. The rice was a little wet. Peter salted his without commenting and she noticed and let it go.

"How was the thing with Marcus?" she asked.

"Postponed. Again."

"Third time."

"Fourth." He reached for the beans. "These are good."

"It's butter."

Outside, the neighbor's motion light snapped on and off. They talked about the gutters, which needed cleaning before it froze, and whether it was worth paying someone. Peter cleared the plates. Dana wiped the table with a damp cloth, folded it over the faucet, and went to find the show they'd been watching.


The rain had started around four, so Priya took the long way home to avoid the flooded dip under the railroad bridge. When she came in, Danny was already at the stove, sleeves pushed up, poking at chicken thighs in the cast iron.

"There's no rice," he said. "I looked twice."

"There's orzo."

"Orzo isn't rice."

"It's shaped like rice." She hung her coat on the hook that was slowly pulling out of the drywall and came to look over his shoulder. The chicken was browning unevenly, the way it always did on their warped burner. "Turn the pan a quarter."

"I know how to turn a pan."

He turned the pan. She washed her hands and got out the orzo, filled a pot, salted it, and stood there watching the water refuse to boil while Danny told her about his afternoon—a client who wanted the logo bigger, then smaller, then bigger again. Priya made the noises that meant she was listening, because she was, mostly. Half her attention was on the lid, waiting for the rattle.

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table was covered in mail neither of them had opened. Danny had squeezed lemon over everything, which he did to nearly all food, and Priya had made a salad from the good half of a bag of arugula. The dressing was mustard and oil, shaken in an old jam jar.

"This is fine," Danny said, meaning it as a compliment.

"It's fine."

The rain kept up against the window over the sink. Somewhere around the second helping, she remembered she'd meant to ask him about his mother's birthday, and they spent ten minutes deciding whether to send flowers or just call, landing on both. Danny cleared the plates. Priya wiped the table, then leaned against the counter and read him the ingredients on the orzo box, because he asked, because neither of them had gotten up to do anything else yet.


Dana got home first, which meant she picked. She stood in the open refrigerator light and did the math out loud, though no one was there yet: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, two zucchini going soft at the ends, a box of orzo.

"Chicken and orzo," she announced when the front door clicked.

Marcus set his keys in the ceramic dish and loosened his tie without untying it, pulling the loop over his head the way she'd told him ruined ties. "Is there enough chicken?"

"There's enough if you don't eat it standing up."

He ate a piece standing up, then filled the kettle for the pasta water because she never used the kettle and it drove him crazy waiting for a pot to boil. Dana sliced the zucchini into coins and salted them harder than he would have. They moved around each other in the narrow galley kitchen with the ease of eleven years, one stepping back without looking as the other reached for the olive oil.

"Sonia's asking about the Fourth," she said. "Whether we're coming up."

"To the lake?"

"To the lake."

He considered it while stirring the orzo. "The bugs."

"That's what I said. She said we're being old."

"We are old."

They ate at the kitchen table because the dining table had a laundry basket on it. The zucchini was too salty and Dana said so first, which meant Marcus could agree without consequence. He mentioned that his boss had finally approved the new hire, and she said good, and asked if that meant he'd stop checking email at ten.

"Probably not."

"Probably not," she agreed.

After, he washed and she dried, and they left the pot to soak. She turned off the kitchen light while he was still in the room, an old habit, and he said hey, and she said sorry, and turned it back on.


Dana got home first, which meant the radio in the kitchen was on and the oven was already heating. She stood at the open refrigerator with her coat still buttoned, doing the arithmetic of what was left: two chicken thighs, half a bag of green beans, a lemon going soft in the crisper drawer.

"There's rice," Michael said from the doorway. He set his keys in the dish by the toaster, the way he always did, the way she had stopped noticing years ago.

"Then it's chicken and rice and beans."

"Ambitious."

"You can make the rice."

He filled the pot and measured the water with his eye rather than the lines on the cup, which she chose not to comment on. Dana laid the thighs in a pan, salted them, cut the lemon into rounds and tucked them underneath. The green beans she snapped at the sink, dropping the ends into the compost bin, which needed emptying.

"Did you call the dentist?"

"I called. They put me on hold for eleven minutes and then I had a meeting."

"So no."

"So no." He put the lid on the rice and turned the burner down. "I'll do it tomorrow. Nine sharp, before anybody's awake enough to put me on hold."

They ate at the kitchen table because the dining room table had bills on it. The chicken was better than either of them expected; the beans were slightly underdone, and Michael ate them anyway, quietly. Dana told him about the woman at work who had started bringing in a rice cooker and using it at her desk. He told her the downstairs faucet was dripping again, and that he'd looked up a video about it.

"Are you going to watch the video, or are we calling someone?"

"I'll watch the video first."

She let that stand. He got up for the water pitcher and refilled both glasses without asking.


Dana got home first, which meant the radio went on—the classical station, low, because Marcus said it made him feel like he was in a dentist's office. She opened the fridge and stood there with the door propped against her hip, taking inventory. Chicken thighs from Sunday, still good. Half a bag of green beans. A lemon going soft at one end.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the oven preheating and was trimming the beans on a cutting board that had warped years ago in the dishwasher.

"You want rice or that couscous?" he asked, already reaching past her for the cabinet.

"Rice takes too long."

"Rice takes twenty minutes."

"Then rice." She scooted sideways to give him the sink. He filled the pot and set it on the back burner, and she noticed he'd started the water before measuring the rice, which he always did, and which she had stopped mentioning in 2019.

They worked around each other without much talking. He salted the chicken heavily and she reached over and added more, and he made a face but didn't stop her. The kitchen fogged up. She dumped the beans in a pan with oil and let them blister while he stood at the counter eating a handful of shredded cheese out of the bag.

"That's for tacos."

"There's plenty."

They ate at the table because Dana had decided, in January, that they would start eating at the table. The chicken was slightly dry but the skin was good. Marcus told a long story about a coworker who kept using the word "synergize" unironically. Dana laughed in the right places and pushed her green beans into the lemon juice pooled on the plate.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and there were only six things, so it took no time at all.


Dana got home first, which meant the radio stayed on the classical station instead of switching to sports talk. She kicked her shoes toward the closet, missed, and left them where they landed.

The refrigerator offered a package of chicken thighs, half a bag of green beans, and a lemon that had gone a little soft on one side. She put a pot of water on before she'd even decided what it was for.

Marcus came in at ten after six, keys jangling, smelling faintly of the parking garage. "Traffic on Cleveland," he said, which was less a complaint than a greeting.

"Chicken okay?"

"Sure." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and she moved her elbow to give him room. "You want rice or those noodles?"

"Rice takes twenty minutes."

"Noodles then." He found the box in the cupboard behind the cereal and dumped it into the pot she'd started, which turned out to be exactly the right size.

She salted the chicken and set it skin-down in the cast iron. Marcus took over the green beans, snapping the ends off into the compost bin, talking about a coworker who kept scheduling meetings at four-thirty on Fridays. Dana made a face at the right moment. The kitchen got loud with the chicken, then quieter as she turned the heat down.

They ate at the table because Dana had insisted years ago and Marcus had eventually stopped arguing. The lemon went over the beans. The chicken skin was good, browned properly, and Marcus said so twice.

"I forgot to call your mother back," Dana said.

"She'll call again."

Afterward he washed and she dried, because his hands didn't mind the hot water. There was a crust on the cast iron that he set aside to soak, though they both knew you weren't supposed to.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to choose. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, three eggs, a heel of parmesan.

By the time Marcus came in at six-twenty, she had the beans in a colander and a pot of water climbing toward a boil.

"Pasta?" he said, hanging his keys on the hook that had been mounted crooked since they moved in.

"Pasta. There's chicken to put in it."

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink instead of the bathroom, the way she'd stopped mentioning. "Is the chicken still good?"

"It's Wednesday."

"That's not an answer."

She handed him the container. He smelled it, made a face that meant nothing in particular, and started pulling meat off the bone with his fingers.

"Don't eat all of it standing there."

"I'm tasting for safety."

The beans went in with the pasta for the last four minutes, which was a shortcut Dana's mother would have objected to. Marcus grated the parmesan on the small side of the box grater, standing too close, and she elbowed him toward the plates.

They ate at the table because they'd made a rule about it in January, and it had mostly held. Marcus told her about the guy at work who kept scheduling meetings at four-forty-five. Dana said her dentist appointment got moved to the eleventh and could he take Riley to practice that day.

"The eleventh," he said, chewing. "Yeah. Probably."

"Probably isn't on the calendar."

"I'll put it on the calendar."

Halfway through, he got up and came back with the crushed red pepper, shaking it over his bowl and then hers without asking, because he knew she wanted it and wouldn't get up for it.

Afterward she washed and he dried, and the pot soaked until morning.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, two eggs, a lemon rolling loose in the crisper drawer.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the front door.

"Again?" Marcus said, and then, "Yeah, fine. I'll do the rice."

He measured it wrong on purpose, the way he always did, an extra half-cup because he liked leftovers for lunch. Dana pulled the meat off the bones with her fingers, dropping the carcass in a plastic bag for stock she probably wouldn't make. The beans she trimmed straight into the pan, no cutting board, snapping the ends with her thumbnail while Marcus reached past her for the olive oil.

"You're in my spot."

"You have a spot?"

"By the stove, yes."

She moved eight inches to the left. On the radio, somebody was talking about a bond measure. Marcus turned it down without asking, and she didn't object, because she hadn't been listening either.

They ate at the kitchen table, which had two placemats and a stack of mail neither of them had sorted. The chicken was dry. Dana squeezed lemon over hers and passed it across; Marcus did the same, then salted it heavily, which he knew she thought was excessive.

"How was the thing with Priya?"

"Moved to Thursday." He ate some beans. "These are good."

"They were almost dead."

"Well. You saved them."

Afterward he washed and she dried, because their dishwasher had a broken top rack and neither of them had called anyone. Dana wiped the counter down twice, once with soap and once with plain water, a habit from her mother. Marcus put the rice in a container, wrote *THURS* on masking tape, and stuck it to the lid.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, three eggs, a heel of Parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Is there rice?" Mark said, unlacing his boots in the hallway.

There was rice. There was almost always rice. She put a pot on while he changed out of his work clothes, and by the time he came back in sweatpants she had the beans dumped on a sheet pan, olive oil pooling in the low spots.

"You're doing them in the oven?"

"They're too far gone to steam."

He accepted this and took over the beans, spreading them out with his hands, shaking salt from the box because the grinder was empty again. Neither of them mentioned the grinder. Dana pulled the chicken apart standing over the sink, dropping the skin into the trash and the meat into a bowl, and Mark reached past her for the pepper.

"Don't put that in the rice," she said.

"I wasn't going to."

"You did last time."

"Last time you told me to."

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table had a jigsaw puzzle on it, a thousand pieces of a lighthouse, forty percent finished and stalled. Mark ate fast, the way he always had, and then sat there with his fork down while Dana was still working through her beans, which were a little charred on the ends and better for it.

"That was good," he said.

"It was fine."

"It was good."

He rinsed the plates and she wiped the counter, and they were done by seven-fifteen, the whole thing, start to finish, and the puzzle sat there waiting.


Maya got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in the kitchen with her coat still on, looking into the refrigerator at a package of chicken thighs, half a bag of green beans, and a lemon going soft at one end.

By the time Dev came in, she had the oven preheating and the beans dumped into a colander.

"It smells like nothing in here," he said, hanging his keys on the hook.

"Give it twenty minutes."

He washed his hands and took over the beans, trimming the ends with a paring knife because he didn't trust her with the good chef's knife on small things. She salted the chicken and cracked pepper over it and squeezed the lemon, and they moved around each other in the narrow space between the counter and the stove, saying *behind you* and *sorry* and *can you grab the sheet pan.*

"Rice or bread?" she asked.

"Rice takes too long."

"It takes eighteen minutes."

"Bread," he said, and got the loaf out.

While the chicken cooked, he told her about a coworker who had scheduled a meeting for 4:45 on a Friday, and she made the right noises without fully listening, because she was watching the beans and thinking about a text she needed to answer. He noticed and didn't mind.

They ate at the table, which they had started doing again in January after a stretch of months on the couch. The chicken was slightly overdone on one side. The beans were good.

"Too much lemon?" she asked.

"No. It's good." He tore off another piece of bread. "The skin's better when you dry it first."

"I know. I forgot."

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the pan needed to soak, and it did.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the pasta because the zucchini in the crisper drawer had started to go soft at one end.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the water on and was slicing the zucchini into coins, cutting away the bad part with a paring knife.

"There's that pesto," he said, looking in the fridge. "The jar."

"It's been open since, like, February."

He took it out anyway, twisted the lid, and sniffed. "It's fine. It's oily. Oil doesn't go bad."

"Oil absolutely goes bad."

He set it on the counter, undecided, and washed his hands at the sink while she moved over to make room. He asked about her mother. Dana said her mother had called twice and left one voicemail that was forty seconds of ambient car noise. Marcus laughed and got out the good olive oil, the one they'd bought in Vermont and had been rationing since summer.

The zucchini went into a pan with garlic and salt. He salted the pasta water, tasting it off his fingertip. She had opinions about how much garlic, and he ignored them, and she let him.

They ate at the kitchen table with the overhead light on because neither of them got up to turn on the nicer lamp. Marcus grated parmesan directly onto his plate from the wedge. Dana drank water out of a jar. They talked about whether to go to his cousin's thing on Saturday, and decided they would, and then decided they'd see.

Afterward she washed and he dried, standing close in the narrow galley kitchen, moving around each other without thinking. He put the pesto back in the fridge. She saw him do it and said nothing.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in through the garage door, still holding her keys. She set them in the ceramic dish by the microwave and looked at the pot on the stove.

"You started without me," she said.

"You said you'd be home at six." Marcus was pushing chicken thighs around with a wooden spoon. "It's six-twenty."

"There was a wreck on Waverly. Everybody rubbernecking." She leaned over his shoulder. "Is that the soy sauce or the teriyaki?"

"Soy. We're out of teriyaki."

"We are?" She opened the pantry, moved a box of couscous, and confirmed it. "I'll put it on the list."

The list lived on the side of the refrigerator, under a magnet from a plumbing company that had once come out at eleven at night. Dana wrote *teriyaki* below *paper towels* and *lightbulbs (bathroom)*.

"Do you want the broccoli?" Marcus asked. "It's getting soft."

"Steam it. It's fine if it's soft."

He filled the small pot with an inch of water and set it on the back burner while Dana changed out of her work clothes. When she came back in sweatpants, she took two plates down and stood beside him at the stove, not really helping, mostly reading her phone against the counter's edge.

"Your mother called me," she said.

"On your phone?"

"She couldn't reach you."

"My phone was in my jacket." He turned the burner off. "What did she want?"

"To know if we're coming Sunday."

"Are we?"

"I said probably."

They ate at the table, which they usually did, though the television was on in the next room with the sound low. Marcus salted his rice twice. Dana ate the broccoli first and then the chicken. Outside, a car door slammed, and the neighbor's dog started up.

"It's good," she said.

"It's the same as always."

"It's still good," she said, and reached over to take a piece off his plate.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a package of ground turkey, a zucchini going soft at one end, a carton of eggs, the good Parmesan they'd bought on sale.

"Tacos or pasta," she called out when she heard the door.

"Whatever's easier." Marcus set his keys in the bowl by the door, then thought better of the answer. "Pasta. We had tacos Sunday."

He took the zucchini and a knife while she browned the turkey, and for a few minutes neither said anything beyond the practical—do we have red pepper flakes, did you salt the water, the oil's smoking. He cut the zucchini into half-moons, trimming off the soft end and dropping it in the compost bin under the sink, which needed emptying and which he decided not to mention.

"Rachel called about Thanksgiving," Dana said.

"Already?"

"She likes to plan." She scraped the zucchini into the pan. "I said we'd let her know."

"That's fair." Marcus filled two glasses with tap water and set them on the table, moving yesterday's mail into a pile. They ate at the table, mostly, which had been a small resolution back in March and had more or less held.

The pasta was slightly overdone. Dana noticed and said so, and Marcus said he hadn't noticed, and grated more Parmesan over his bowl than was strictly reasonable.

"Good, though," he said.

"It's fine."

They talked about his coworker's transfer, about whether the dryer was making a new noise or the same old one. Marcus finished first and ate a few more bites out of her bowl when she pushed it toward him.

He washed, she dried, and they were done by seven-fifteen.


Dana got home first, which meant she decided. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, the heel of a block of parmesan.

By the time Marcus came in, stamping road salt off his boots in the entryway, she had the beans in a colander and a pot of water heating.

"Pasta?" he said.

"Pasta." She held up the parmesan. "And we should use the chicken."

He hung his coat on the back of a chair instead of the hook, which she noticed and didn't mention. "Do we have any of that red pepper stuff?"

"The chili crisp? I think you finished it."

"I did not finish it." He opened the cabinet above the stove and moved things around. "Okay. I finished it."

She laughed. He took over the beans, trimming them with a paring knife on the cutting board while she pulled chicken off the bone with her fingers, dropping the skin in the trash and the meat into a bowl. The kitchen radio was on, low, some public station doing a story about county water rights.

"How was the Kaminski thing?" she asked.

"Moved to Thursday." He scraped the ends into the compost bin. "Which is fine. I'd rather have the extra day."

The water came to a boil and she salted it, more than looked reasonable, the way her mother had taught her. Marcus set the table—two plates, two forks, the good napkins because the paper ones had run out. He poured himself water from the tap and got her the seltzer from the door of the fridge.

They ate at the table with the radio still going. The beans were a little overdone. Neither of them said so.

"This is good," Marcus said, and meant it.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they were done by seven forty.


Marcy got home first, which meant she got to choose. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at a package of chicken thighs and a bag of green beans going limp at the ends.

"Chicken and rice?" she called out when she heard the front door.

"Sure." Dan came into the kitchen, set his keys in the bowl, and looked over her shoulder. "Do we have that lemon?"

"There's half of one. It's kind of hard."

"That's fine. It'll juice."

She got the rice going in the small pot, measuring by memory—one cup, then water up to the second knuckle. Dan took over the chicken because he was better at not overcooking it. He patted the thighs dry with a paper towel and salted them heavily while the cast iron heated.

"Too high," Marcy said.

"It needs to be high."

"It's going to smoke."

It did smoke, a little, and she opened the window over the sink without saying anything. She trimmed the green beans, throwing the bad ones in the compost bin, and put them in the microwave with a splash of water and a plate on top.

"Did Kelsey ever text you back about Saturday?" Dan asked, turning the chicken.

"She said maybe. Which means no."

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table had a puzzle on it that neither of them wanted to move yet. Dan squeezed the hard lemon over his chicken and then over hers, without asking, because she always wanted it. The rice was slightly underdone in the center of the pot.

"I'll do the dishes," Marcy said. "You cooked."

"I'll dry."

He told her about a guy at work who kept microwaving fish. She laughed with her mouth full and then covered it with her hand, and outside the window it got dark while they were still sitting there.


The rain had started around four, so Dana came in through the garage shaking water off her jacket and calling out that the store was out of the good sourdough. Marcus was already at the stove, sleeves shoved to his elbows, poking at chicken thighs in the cast iron.

"Regular bread's fine," he said. "I'm doing the lemon thing."

"You always do the lemon thing."

"Because you always eat it."

She hung the jacket on the door hook where it would drip onto the mat, then washed her hands at the kitchen sink because the bathroom was upstairs and she was already here. The kitchen smelled like garlic and hot metal. Outside, the gutters were running loud.

"Rice or the couscous?" she asked, opening the cabinet.

"Couscous. Faster."

She filled the kettle. Marcus turned the thighs, and the pan spat, and he swore mildly and stepped back. Dana reached past him for the salt and he tilted his hip out of her way without looking, an accommodation twelve years old.

They ate at the table, though they had eaten at the counter most of last week. Marcus had squeezed half a lemon over everything and the couscous had absorbed it unevenly, so some bites were sharp and some were plain. Dana told him about a woman at work who had brought in a slow cooker and left it plugged in all weekend. Marcus said that was how you got a fire. She said that was what she'd said.

"This is good," she said. "The skin got crispy."

"I dried it first. With paper towels."

"Huh."

He got up for water and brought back two glasses. The rain thinned while they were eating and by the time Dana was scraping her plate into the compost bin it had stopped altogether. Marcus washed, she dried, and they left the pan to soak overnight.


Marguerite got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the ends, two eggs, a heel of Parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Whatever's easiest," Devin said, which was what he always said, and which she had long ago stopped finding unhelpful. He came into the kitchen loosening his tie, kissed the side of her head, and started running water into the rice pot without being asked.

"Two cups," she said.

"I know how much rice we eat."

She pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the good pieces into a bowl and the skin into the trash, though Devin fished out a strip and ate it standing up.

"That's disgusting."

"That's the best part."

The green beans she trimmed at the counter, snapping off the bad ends and dropping them into the compost bin under the sink, which needed emptying. She mentioned this. He said he'd do it after dinner and then wrote it on the whiteboard on the fridge so it would actually happen.

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table in the living room had a puzzle on it, half finished, a lighthouse. Devin salted his rice twice. Marguerite told him about a woman at work who'd asked, sincerely, whether Canada used American money. Devin said the beans were good. She said they were about to go bad, that's all. He said that wasn't a contradiction.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the pot needed to soak. It did not, in his opinion. She let it soak anyway, and he let her.


Marisol got home first, which meant she got to choose. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at a half-bag of baby spinach, three eggs, and a block of cheddar that had gone slightly sweaty.

"Frittata?" she called out when she heard the door.

"Sure." Devon dropped his keys in the dish by the door. "Is there bread?"

"There's the ends of the sourdough."

"That's fine. I'll toast them."

She cracked the eggs into a bowl while he changed out of his work shirt, and by the time he came back in a T-shirt she was grating cheese into the eggs, holding the block at an angle so the knuckle scrapes stayed minimal. He filled a glass of water at the sink and drank the whole thing standing there.

"Long day?"

"Kevin scheduled a two o'clock meeting that could have been an email," he said. "Do you want the spinach wilted first or just thrown in?"

"Wilted. It gets watery otherwise."

He took the pan from the drying rack and set it on the burner, added a splash of olive oil, and dumped in the spinach. It hissed and collapsed almost instantly. Marisol poured the eggs over it and he handed her the spatula without being asked.

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table had a stack of unopened mail on it and neither of them wanted to deal with that. The frittata was slightly overcooked on the bottom. Devon ate his with hot sauce, which Marisol thought ruined it, and she said so, and he said she'd been saying that for eleven years.

"Because it's still true."

Outside it had gotten fully dark without either of them noticing. Devon got up for more water and refilled her glass too. They talked about whether to visit his sister in April, and decided to decide later, and then Marisol washed and Devon dried.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in the open refrigerator light, weighing the chicken thighs against the ground turkey, and settled on the thighs because they'd been thawing since Sunday and Marcus had already asked twice what she was going to do with them.

He came in at six-forty, dropping his bag by the shoe rack and loosening his tie in that one motion he'd been doing for eleven years.

"Oven's at four hundred," she said. "Can you do the potatoes?"

"How small?"

"Bite-size. Not the way you did them last time."

"Those were bite-size." He washed three russets in the sink, thumbing off a soft spot. "For a big bite."

She salted the chicken and laid the thighs skin-down in the cast iron, and the kitchen filled immediately with a spitting hiss and the smell of rendering fat. Marcus quartered the potatoes, then halved the quarters, holding one up for inspection. Dana nodded without really looking.

They talked about the neighbor's dog while the potatoes went in, and about whether the car needed an oil change, and Marcus said he'd call Tuesday. He set the table with the everyday plates, the ones with the chip on the blue one that always went to him, and poured water for both of them because neither of them drank anything with dinner on a Wednesday.

The chicken came out with the skin dark and crackling. Dana squeezed half a lemon over it. They sat at the small table by the window with the blinds still up, the yard going gray outside.

"That's good," Marcus said. "The lemon."

"It needed something."

He ate two thighs. She ate one and pushed the potatoes around, tired in a way she didn't feel like explaining. Afterward he washed and she dried, and they got the dishwasher loaded by eight.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the chicken thighs before they turned. She set the oven to 425 and started peeling potatoes over the sink, the skins going into the compost bin that needed emptying again.

Marcus came in at six-twenty, dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, and stood behind her looking at the counter.

"Those the ones from Sunday?"

"They're fine. Smell them if you want."

He didn't. He washed his hands, nudged her over with his hip, and took the knife to the potatoes, cutting them into uneven chunks the way he always did. She'd stopped mentioning it.

"There's half a bag of green beans," he said.

"Do them in the pan after."

The chicken went in skin-side up with salt, pepper, and the garlic powder that had solidified into a single brick inside the container. Dana chipped at it with a fork. Marcus tossed the potatoes with oil on a second sheet pan and slid it onto the lower rack, and then there was nothing to do for forty minutes, so he opened a beer and sat at the table with his phone while she went to change out of work clothes.

They ate in the living room because there was a game on, plates on their knees, the green beans slightly too crunchy. Marcus said the chicken was good. Dana said the skin could've been crisper, next time she'd start it lower.

"Did you call the dentist?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "They close at four."

"You said that Tuesday."

"I know."

He got up for another beer and brought her the last of the wine without being asked. The potatoes were the best part, which they agreed on, and they left the pans soaking overnight.


Dana got home first, so she started the rice. The cooker's lid was still crusted with something from Sunday, and she scrubbed at it under hot water while the measuring cup floated in the sink.

Marcus came in at six-twenty, dropped his bag by the coat hooks, and stood in the kitchen doorway with his keys still in his hand.

"There's chicken thighs," Dana said. "They expire tomorrow."

"Okay." He washed his hands and got the package out, peeled back the plastic. "How many?"

"All of them. We'll have lunch."

He salted them heavily, the way he liked, and she didn't say anything about it, though she'd mention it later if the leftovers were too much. The cast iron heated while he trimmed a little fat off with the paring knife because the good knife was in the dishwasher, unwashed, along with everything else. Neither of them had run it.

"I'll do it after," Dana said, following his glance.

"I can do it."

"You did it Monday."

She found half a bag of green beans in the crisper drawer, snapped the ends off, and tossed them in a pan with butter and a splash of water and a lid. Marcus laid the chicken skin-side down and the kitchen filled up with noise and smoke, and Dana reached past him to click on the hood fan.

They ate at the table because Dana liked to, though the television was audible from the other room where Marcus had left it. She asked about his afternoon meeting. He said it got pushed to Thursday. She said her mother had called twice and she hadn't called back yet.

"You should," he said.

"I know."

The chicken was good. Slightly too salty. They agreed the beans needed lemon, and there wasn't any, and Marcus wrote it on the list stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from a dentist's office they no longer used.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in through the garage, still holding her keys.

"I got the chicken out this morning," she said. "It's in the sink."

"I saw." Marcus was already at the cutting board, working through a yellow onion with the knife they kept meaning to sharpen. "You want it in strips or chunks?"

"Strips. Then it cooks faster and we can eat before the show."

He nodded and slid the onion into the pan, where it hissed against the oil. Dana set her bag on the chair, kicked her shoes toward the closet, and came back to wash her hands at the kitchen sink, bumping his hip with hers to make room.

"There's that broccoli," she said. "The one bag. It's probably borderline."

Marcus looked. "It's fine. A little yellow on the ends."

"Cut those off."

"I'm cutting them off."

She got two plates down, then the soy sauce from the door of the fridge, and the rice vinegar from the cabinet where it always got shoved behind the olive oil. The chicken went in and the noise in the pan doubled. Marcus turned the fan on, which meant they had to raise their voices slightly.

"Did you call the dentist?" he asked.

"I called. They can do the eighteenth at four."

"That's early for me."

"That's what I told them. She's checking on the twenty-fifth."

They ate at the small table by the window, not the dining room, because the dining room table had a stack of mail and a broken lamp on it. The broccoli was slightly underdone in the stems. Dana pushed her rice into the sauce and said it needed more garlic next time, and Marcus said he'd thought that too but forgot to say so.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and there was still twenty minutes before the show.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, a lemon.

"Chicken again?" Marcus said from the doorway. He set his keys in the bowl by the door, the one with the chip in it they kept meaning to replace.

"Chicken and rice. Different presentation."

"Presentation." He laughed and started rolling up his sleeves. "Want me to do the beans?"

She handed him the bag. He rinsed them in the colander, snapping off the ends and dropping them into the pan while she pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, working the meat off the bones. The rice cooker gurgled on the counter. Outside, someone's car alarm went off for four seconds and stopped.

"Sarah wants to do Thanksgiving at her place this year," Marcus said.

"Did you tell her yes?"

"I told her I'd ask you."

"Good answer." Dana scraped the bones into the trash. "I don't want to drive four hours on a Thursday."

"That's what I said. I mean, that's what I thought."

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table was covered with mail neither of them had sorted. The beans were slightly overcooked; Marcus had gotten distracted looking at his phone. Dana squeezed lemon over hers and passed him the wedge.

"It's fine," he said, before she could say anything.

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked at them."

They talked about the dishwasher, which was making a sound. They talked about whether Marcus should ask for the Friday off. When they finished, Dana carried both plates to the sink and Marcus wiped down the table, and then they stood in the kitchen for a minute, not doing anything, before he said he'd start the water.


Marta got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at half a rotisserie chicken, a bag of green beans, and a container of rice from Sunday.

By the time Dev came in at six-twenty, she had the beans in a colander and the oven preheating.

"It's cold in here," he said, hanging his keys on the hook.

"The window in the bedroom was open. I closed it."

"That was me. Sorry." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, which she'd told him a hundred times not to do while she was rinsing vegetables, and she moved the colander without saying anything. "What are we doing?"

"Chicken, beans, that rice."

"Is the rice still good?"

She lifted the lid and smelled it. "It's Thursday."

"Sunday to Thursday."

"It's fine. I'll microwave it hot."

He tore the beans' ends off while she pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the skin into the trash because he didn't like it and she was trying not to eat it. They talked about his brother's new job, and about whether the car noise was the brakes or something worse, and Dev said he'd call the place on Grand tomorrow.

They ate at the table with the TV off, which was a rule they'd made in February and kept about half the time. The beans were undercooked. Marta ate them anyway; Dev pushed his to the side of the plate.

"You could have left them in longer," he said.

"You took them out."

"Did I?" He thought about it. "I did."

Afterward he washed and she dried, and when the last pan was in the rack she leaned against the counter and said she was going to bed early, and he said he'd be up in a bit, and he was.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs, most of a block of cheddar.

"Chicken again?" Marcus said from the doorway, dropping his keys in the bowl.

"Chicken quesadillas. Different animal."

"Same animal, technically."

She shut the fridge with her hip. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair instead of in the closet, and she decided not to say anything about it, the way she had decided not to say anything about it roughly four hundred times before.

He shredded the chicken with two forks while she grated the cheese, and they traded the small news of the day. His car was making a sound again, a kind of tick when he turned left. Her boss wanted the quarterly numbers by Thursday, which was fine, except that she also wanted the numbers to be good, which was less fine.

"You want the green beans?" she asked.

"Are they still good?"

"They're still beans."

She trimmed them anyway and threw them in a pan with butter and too much garlic. Marcus flipped the quesadillas with a spatula that had a warped handle, from the time it had been left in a hot pan, which had been his fault and which they both remembered.

They ate at the kitchen table with the TV on in the other room, the volume low, neither of them watching it. Marcus got up for hot sauce. Dana ate the beans first and then the quesadilla, the way she always did.

"These are good," he said.

"They're okay."

"They're good."

He rinsed the plates; she loaded them. By seven-thirty the kitchen was dark again.


Rain started around five, so Dana texted Miguel to grab a lemon on his way home. He came in at six with the lemon, a bag of shredded parmesan he hadn't been asked for, and wet shoes he left by the door.

"There's chicken thawed," Dana said. She was pulling the cutting board out from behind the toaster, where it always got wedged. "Or we do pasta."

"Pasta." He was already rinsing a pot at the sink, tapping it dry against his palm. "The chicken's fine till tomorrow."

She sliced the lemon while he salted the water and stood over it with his phone, reading something about the Bulls. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had a system: she took the counter by the stove, he took the sink side, and when he needed the strainer he said "behind you" and she leaned forward without looking.

"Did Marissa call you back about Saturday?"

"She left a voicemail." Dana scraped garlic off the knife with her thumbnail. "She wants to do brunch instead. Eleven-thirty."

"Eleven-thirty's not brunch. That's lunch."

"Tell her that."

The pasta went in. He put a colander in the sink and she started the sauce — olive oil, garlic, a lot of black pepper, the lemon juice, the parmesan he hadn't been asked for. Two bowls out of the cabinet, the good ones, because the everyday ones were in the dishwasher and neither of them had run it.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one end. He'd forgotten to buy bread, and said so, and she said it was fine. It was too peppery. They both agreed it was too peppery and both ate all of it.

Afterward he loaded the dishwasher and she wiped the counter, and then she leaned against the fridge for a minute watching the rain hit the window over the sink.

"I'll get the bread tomorrow," he said.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open fridge with her coat still on, doing the math: half a package of ground turkey, a zucchini going soft at one end, a jar of marinara with maybe two servings left.

"Pasta?" she called when she heard the door.

"Sure." Marcus came into the kitchen loosening his tie, then stopped and took it off entirely, draping it over the back of a chair. "Did we eat pasta Monday?"

"Tuesday. But that was the mac and cheese, which I think counts as a different food group."

He filled the pot without measuring and set it on the back burner, then turned the burner off and moved the pot to the front one, because the back one took forever. Dana was already trimming the bad end off the zucchini, dropping the slices into a pan with too much olive oil, the way she liked and he pretended not to notice.

"There's no bread," he said, checking the drawer.

"There's the heels."

"That's what I mean."

"Toast them, they'll be fine."

He put two heels in the toaster and stood there, watching them, which she teased him about, but he claimed the toaster ran hot. Water came to a boil. She dumped in the penne, stirred it once, and left it.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side. Marcus told her about a coworker who'd argued for twenty minutes about a spreadsheet formula and then discovered his own typo. Dana laughed with her mouth full and then had to cover it.

"That's more marinara than pasta," he observed.

"That's the correct ratio."

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they discovered the dish towel was damp from that morning, so she got a new one from the drawer and hung the old one over the oven handle to dry.


Maya got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, three eggs.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Sure." Dev dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and came into the kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves. He filled a pot with water without being asked, the way he had for eleven years. "There's still that jasmine rice, right?"

"Back of the pantry. Behind the cereal."

He found it, measured two cups into the pot, then thought better of it and added a half cup more because he liked leftovers for lunch. Maya pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the shreds into a bowl and tossing the skin in the trash. She trimmed the green beans on the cutting board, snapping off the ends and dropping them in a colander.

"Do we have soy sauce?"

"Somewhere." He handed her the bottle from the door of the fridge, then leaned against the counter and told her about a coworker who'd printed out an email and brought it to a meeting, which annoyed him more than seemed reasonable. Maya laughed at the part he wanted her to laugh at.

They ate at the kitchen table because the dining table had bills on it. The beans were a little overcooked. Dev put too much hot sauce on his rice, then drank most of his water at once.

"This is good," he said.

"It's fine."

"It's good."

She let it go. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and stopped. They talked about whether to go to his sister's on Saturday, and decided they probably had to. Maya washed; Dev dried.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the pasta because there was half a box of penne in the cabinet and a jar of sauce that had been sitting there since some earlier, more optimistic grocery trip. She filled the pot too full, the way she always did, and set it on the back burner.

Marcus came in at ten after six, dropped his keys in the dish by the door, and stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the pot. "That's going to take forever to boil."

"It's fine."

"I'm just saying." He rolled up his sleeves and opened the fridge. "There's that spinach. It's getting slimy at the bottom."

"Put it in the sauce, then."

He rinsed it in the colander and picked out the bad leaves, dropping them in the compost bin under the sink, and she moved sideways to give him room at the stove. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had learned to move around each other without talking about it.

"Do we have parmesan?"

"The green can."

"That's not parmesan."

"It's close enough," Dana said.

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table was covered in mail neither of them had gone through. Marcus asked about her afternoon and she told him about the meeting that could have been an email, and he made a noise of agreement and twisted his fork against the bowl. The spinach had wilted down into the sauce and was better than either of them expected.

"This is good," he said.

"It's sauce from a jar."

"It's good sauce from a jar."

Afterward she washed and he dried, and when he couldn't find where the pot lid went she pointed with her chin at the cabinet above the stove. He put it away. They left one light on and went into the other room.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the thing they already had: a package of chicken thighs from Sunday, a bag of green beans, the last of the rice. She turned the oven to 425 and stood in front of it with her coat still on.

Mark came in twenty minutes later, dropped his bag by the stairs, and washed his hands at the kitchen sink because the bathroom was upstairs and he was hungry.

"There's rice in the fridge," Dana said. "It might be enough."

He opened the container and tilted it. "For two normal people."

"Then make more."

He made more, measuring the water by putting his finger in the pot the way his mother had shown him, which Dana had stopped arguing about years ago. She trimmed the green beans, snapping the ends off in a pile she pushed toward the compost bin with the flat of her knife.

"Do we have lemons?"

"There's the half from Tuesday."

It had dried out on one side, but the rest gave up some juice. She squeezed it over the beans with olive oil and salt and slid the pan onto the rack under the chicken. The kitchen got loud with the fan going.

"How was the meeting?" Mark asked.

"Moved to Thursday." She leaned against the counter. "So I did nothing all afternoon but prepare for a meeting that isn't happening."

"That's still working."

"It doesn't feel like it."

They ate at the table because Dana liked to, though the television was on in the other room, still tuned to whatever Mark had left it on that morning. The chicken skin had crisped unevenly. Mark ate the pale pieces without comment.

"This is good," he said.

"It's fine."

He got up for the hot sauce. She let him take a piece off her plate when he sat back down.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator in her work clothes, holding the door with her hip, and took inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, three eggs, a lemon rolling loose in the crisper drawer.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the front door.

"Is there rice?" Marcus came into the kitchen, setting his keys in the bowl by the toaster where they always went and never stayed.

"There's the box of the yellow stuff."

"That's fine." He loosened his tie without taking it off, which she'd told him made him look like a man in a beer commercial, and started filling a pot with water. "Beans still good?"

"Good enough."

They worked around each other. Marcus was better at the stove, so he took the beans and a skillet, and Dana pulled the chicken apart with her fingers over the cutting board, dropping the skin in the trash and eating a piece of the crispy part while she did. The rice box said fifteen minutes. It always took twenty.

"Ashley wants us to come out Saturday," she said. "For the thing at the park."

"What time?"

"Eleven?"

"I've got the oil change at ten."

"So we'd be late."

"We'd be a little late." He shook the skillet. The beans hissed. "Salt?"

She handed it to him. He salted the beans, then handed it back and she put it away, which was the arrangement.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one end. The rice was a little wet. Marcus said so and Dana said she'd noticed. Outside, someone's dog was going off about something.

"It's fine, though," he said, and took more.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, two eggs, a heel of parmesan.

"Chicken and rice?" she called out when she heard the front door.

"We had chicken Tuesday." Marcus dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, then reconsidered. "Chicken's fine."

He came into the kitchen, loosened his tie, and hung it over the back of a chair, where it would stay until she moved it to the bedroom sometime tomorrow. She'd stopped mentioning it around year three.

"Beans need to go," she said. "You want to do those?"

He filled a pan with an inch of water while she pulled meat off the bird with her fingers, dropping the skin into the trash can she'd nudged open with her foot. The rice cooker clicked on. Outside, someone was running a leaf blower, which seemed aggressive for six-fifteen in November.

"Trish asked if we're doing anything for Thanksgiving," Marcus said, snapping the ends off the beans.

"Are we?"

"I said I'd ask you."

"Then ask me later. Not while I'm elbow-deep in a chicken."

He laughed. The water started to move, and he tipped the beans in, then salted them without measuring, the way his mother had.

They ate at the kitchen table, not the dining room, with the small television on the counter murmuring local news neither of them watched. Dana grated parmesan over her rice and then over his, without asking, because she knew.

"This is good," he said.

"It's chicken and rice."

"It's good chicken and rice."

Afterward he washed, she dried, and the tie stayed on the chair.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, looking at half a rotisserie chicken, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, and a carton of eggs.

"Chicken and rice?" she called when she heard the front door.

"Sure." Marcus dropped his keys in the bowl. "Is there rice?"

There was, most of a box of the boxed kind with the seasoning packet, which they both pretended not to prefer. He filled a saucepan and set it on the back burner while she pulled the meat off the bones with her fingers, the skin sliding off in one greasy sheet. She ate a piece standing up.

"Beans need to go tonight or they're done," she said.

"I'll do them." He rinsed them in the colander and snapped off the ends, tossing the stems into the sink instead of the trash, which she noticed and let go. He put them in a skillet with butter and a splash of water and covered it with a lid that didn't quite fit.

They talked about the dishwasher, which had been making a sound. Marcus thought it was the spray arm hitting something. Dana thought they should just run it half full for a while and see. The rice boiled over a little and hissed on the burner.

They ate at the kitchen table with the mail pushed to one side. The chicken was dry in places but fine. Marcus put hot sauce on his beans. Dana got up twice, once for salt and once for water, and the second time she brought him a glass too without asking.

"That's good," he said about nothing in particular.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they got through it in eleven minutes because they'd both agreed, months ago and without saying so, that this was better than leaving it.