By five, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the candle Maya had lit to cover the faint odor of the downstairs neighbor’s cigarette smoke. She stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Ben crouched beside the wobbly dining table, tightening a screw with a butter knife.

“That’s not a screwdriver,” Maya said.

“It’s working.”

The knife slipped. Ben sucked his thumb and glared at the table. “Mostly working.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, which was the maximum number their apartment could hold without someone eating from the windowsill. Maya had planned roast chicken, potatoes, and a salad. Ben was responsible for drinks and dessert, though his dessert was a bakery pie he had transferred to one of their plates.

At six, Maya discovered the chicken was still pink near the bone. Ben turned down the music, moved the potatoes to a smaller pan, and helped her rearrange the oven racks. Then he carried a stack of unopened mail from the coffee table into the bedroom.

“Not under my pillow,” Maya called.

“I found a drawer.”

“You found my sock drawer.”

The buzzer sounded at six-thirty. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a container of olives. Coats piled on the bed. Ben poured drinks while Maya set out cheese and crackers to buy the chicken more time.

Dinner was served forty minutes late. One chair creaked ominously, and the salad had too much vinegar, but the chicken was done and the potatoes were crisp. Conversation moved from a coworker’s strange resignation email to rising rent and a movie nobody could agree about.

Afterward, Ben cut the pie while Maya made coffee. Their friend Nina helped gather plates, but Maya shooed her back to the table.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Ben washed dishes, and Maya dried them, fitting each plate into the crowded cabinet.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the wine rings on the table and the parsley stuck to the floor. “It did.”

They left the last two glasses in the sink and sat together on the couch, too tired to clean anything else.


By five o’clock, Maya had cleared the mail from the dining table, stacking bills and grocery flyers on the desk in the bedroom. In the kitchen, Eric stood over a cutting board, chopping onions for the tomato sauce.

“Smaller,” Maya said as she passed behind him with a handful of clean napkins.

Eric looked at the uneven pieces. “They’ll dissolve.”

“They never dissolve.”

They had invited four friends to their apartment in Columbus, their first dinner since moving in together that spring. The table only seated four, so Maya borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs. Eric unfolded them and tested each one while the sauce simmered.

At six, Maya changed the music twice and lit a candle that smelled faintly of cedar. Eric opened a bottle of wine, then noticed the garlic bread was still frozen. He turned on the oven and shifted the roasting vegetables to the lower rack.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying beer, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Maya found a jar for the flowers while Eric handed out drinks and introduced Nina, his coworker, to Maya’s college friend Sam.

Dinner was ready twenty minutes late. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath. The pasta stuck together slightly, and one folding chair creaked whenever Sam leaned back, but the sauce was good. Eric admitted Maya had been right about the onions.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Eric cut the chocolate cake Nina had brought. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous office holiday party, then to which local park had the best walking trail. Someone spilled coffee, and both Maya and Eric reached for a towel.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Eric loaded the dishwasher while Maya wrapped the leftover cake.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the wine rings on the table. “It did.”

They carried the folding chairs downstairs together, moving carefully through the narrow stairwell.


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

“Is that four hundred?” he asked.

“It’s either four hundred or broil,” Maya said. “So maybe don’t walk away.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. The dining table usually served as Daniel’s desk, and his laptop, cables, and unopened mail had been moved into a laundry basket in the bedroom. Maya had borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs. None of the plates matched, but there were six of them.

Daniel seasoned chicken thighs while Maya whisked dressing for a salad. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, reaching for towels, bumping hips without apologizing. When Maya tasted the dressing and frowned, Daniel handed her the honey before she asked.

At six-forty, the chicken was still pale. Daniel raised the oven temperature. Maya lit two candles, then blew one out because the scent competed with dinner. She changed her shirt after splashing olive oil on it.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, seltzer, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Someone noticed the laundry basket full of office equipment but politely said nothing.

Dinner began twenty minutes late. The chicken was crisp at the edges and slightly dry, but everyone praised the potatoes. Maya kept water glasses filled; Daniel passed dishes and told the story of their smoke alarm going off during a previous attempt at roasting vegetables.

Afterward, they crowded into the kitchen. One friend washed plates while another dried them with a dish towel that left lint on the glasses. Music played quietly from Daniel’s phone.

By eleven, the apartment was warm and messy. After the last guests left, Maya locked the door. Daniel stacked the remaining plates.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya opened the bakery box and found one cookie left. She broke it in half and handed him the larger piece.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled like onions and lemon. Maya stood at the counter, chopping parsley for the pasta, while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Split the difference,” Maya said. “The bread will survive.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the hallway. Daniel had spent the afternoon moving a stack of unopened mail off the dining table and wiping dust from the wineglasses. Maya had made a grocery run, returning with two bags and a complaint about the price of Parmesan.

At six, Daniel set out mismatched plates. Maya tasted the sauce, added salt, then tasted it again.

“Too salty?” he asked.

“No. I’m thinking.”

“That usually means too salty.”

She handed him the spoon. He considered it seriously. “It needs pepper.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the kitchen window when the smoke alarm chirped over the bread, which had browned more than Daniel intended.

“It’s rustic,” he announced, scraping one edge with a knife.

During dinner, Maya kept the pasta bowl moving while Daniel refilled water glasses and found an extra fork for Lena, who had dropped hers. Conversation turned from office gossip to rent increases, then to a recent movie nobody fully agreed about. The table was crowded with elbows and half-empty glasses.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger and much quieter.

Daniel carried plates to the sink. Maya wrapped the remaining cake in foil.

“That went well,” he said.

“You burned the bread.”

“You oversalted the sauce.”

She smiled and bumped his hip with hers. Together they loaded the dishwasher, talking softly about who had said what, while outside, a bus sighed to a stop on the wet street.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and tucked it into a drawer already crowded with takeout menus and spare batteries. Marcus stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce.

“Too much garlic?” he asked.

She leaned over the steam and tasted from the wooden spoon. “No such thing.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the duplex in Ohio. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Elena set mismatched plates while Marcus shaped meatballs and lined them on a baking sheet. When one rolled onto the floor, their dog, Pepper, swallowed it before either could react.

“That was raw,” Elena said.

Marcus stared at the dog. “She’s made worse choices.”

At six-fifteen, Elena changed her shirt after splashing seltzer on it. Marcus carried recycling to the garage, then returned shivering and announced that sleet had started. They moved everyone’s coats off the couch and stacked them on the bed.

Their friends arrived in pairs, stamping wet shoes on the mat and offering wine, bread, and a grocery-store cake. The kitchen quickly became crowded. Elena poured drinks and introduced Priya, her coworker, to Marcus’s old college roommate, Ben. Marcus drained the pasta, realized he had forgotten to warm the bread, and slid it into the oven.

During dinner, one chair wobbled. Ben folded a napkin under its short leg. The sauce was slightly salty, but everyone took seconds. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous office retreat, then to whether Pepper understood the word “walk.”

Halfway through cake, the smoke alarm sounded. Marcus had left the bread in the oven. He opened the back door while Elena waved a dish towel beneath the alarm. Their friends laughed, and Pepper barked as if helping.

By ten, the guests had gone. Elena washed plates while Marcus packed leftovers into containers. They were tired, and the kitchen smelled faintly burned.

“Next time, pizza?” Marcus asked.

Elena handed him a wet plate. “Absolutely.”

They both knew they would cook again.


By five o’clock, Nina had cleared the mail from the kitchen table and hidden it in the bedroom closet. Ben stood at the counter chopping parsley, pausing every few minutes to stir the tomato sauce.

“You said six-thirty, right?” he asked.

“Six-thirty,” Nina said, though she checked the group text again. Their friends were rarely early, but she still wanted the apartment ready.

They had invited two other couples for dinner, which made six people—exactly the number of chairs they owned if they brought the desk chair in from the spare room. Nina wiped its dusty seat while Ben tasted the sauce and added salt.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. She assembled a salad; he drained the pasta. When Nina realized they had forgotten bread, Ben volunteered to run to the corner store. He returned ten minutes later with a baguette, sparkling water, and a bunch of yellow tulips.

“These were by the register,” he said, setting them down.

At six-forty, the buzzer sounded. Nina let everyone in while Ben lit the two candles on the table. Coats piled on the bed, bottles of wine crowded the counter, and the apartment quickly grew warm.

Dinner was not perfect. The pasta had stuck together, and one candle dripped wax onto a placemat. Still, their friends ate second helpings. Ben told the story of accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work, and Nina laughed even though she had heard it twice. Later, she brought out brownies, while he made coffee in batches because their machine only brewed four cups.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. Nina stood among the dirty plates, exhausted.

“We could leave it,” Ben said.

She considered this, then handed him a dish towel. He washed while she dried. Outside, a bus sighed at the curb. Inside, they stacked the last plate, divided the remaining brownie, and ate it standing together at the sink.


At five-thirty, Elena was still answering emails at the kitchen table while Marcus stood at the counter chopping onions. They had invited four friends for dinner, the largest gathering their apartment could comfortably hold, though Marcus had insisted they could squeeze in six if everyone liked one another.

“Do we have enough wine?” Elena asked without looking up.

“We have two bottles.”

“That means no.”

Marcus wiped his hands and added wine to the grocery list on his phone. Elena closed her laptop, cleared a stack of mail from the table, and carried it to their bedroom, where she hid it in a drawer already crowded with unopened bank statements and spare charging cables.

They divided the remaining work. Marcus started the tomato sauce and vacuumed the living room while it simmered. Elena walked three blocks to the corner store for wine, sparkling water, and the basil they had forgotten. On her way back, she texted their friends to say the front buzzer was broken.

By seven, the apartment smelled of garlic and roasted vegetables. Elena set out mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. Marcus tasted the sauce, frowned, and added salt.

Their first guests arrived at seven-ten, carrying a paper bag with warm bread. The others followed soon after, one with flowers and one apologizing for being late even though it was only seven-twenty.

Marcus poured drinks while Elena found a jar for the flowers. Everyone crowded into the kitchen despite the lack of space. Someone leaned against the refrigerator, and someone else stole a roasted carrot from the pan.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. The pasta stuck together in places, and Marcus dropped a serving spoon on the floor. Elena laughed, rinsed it, and brought more napkins. Their friends told stories about work, rent increases, and a disastrous first date.

After dessert, nobody left immediately. They moved to the living room, balancing coffee cups on their knees. Near midnight, the last guests finally put on their coats.

Elena locked the door behind them. Marcus surveyed the glasses and plates.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Elena stacked two bowls in the sink. “Most of it.”

Together, they cleared the table before going to bed.


By four o’clock, the apartment smelled like onions and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Ben carried two folding chairs up from the basement.

“Both of these wobble,” he said, setting them beside the table.

“Put the blue book under the worse one.”

“The cookbook?”

“We never use it.”

Ben tested the chair, then folded a paper napkin under one leg instead. They were expecting four friends at seven, and their small dining table usually seated only two. Maya had planned roasted chicken, potatoes, and a salad. Ben was responsible for drinks and dessert.

At six, the chicken was browning too quickly. Maya opened the oven, frowned, and lowered the temperature. Ben returned from the corner store with ice, sparkling water, and a bakery box.

“They were out of the chocolate cake,” he said. “I got apple pie.”

“Lena hates apples.”

“She can have ice cream.”

They shifted the lamp into the bedroom, cleared mail from the counter, and argued briefly about whether the bathroom needed a new hand towel. Ben replaced it while Maya dressed the salad. At 6:55, she noticed flour on his black shirt and brushed it off with a damp cloth.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine and a bunch of tulips. Coats piled on the bed. The apartment grew warm and loud. During dinner, one folding chair creaked ominously, but held. The potatoes were crisp, the chicken slightly dry, and everyone asked for seconds anyway.

Afterward, Ben cut the pie while Maya made coffee. Lena laughed when she heard about the missing chocolate cake and ate two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

By eleven, the guests had left. Maya wrapped the remaining chicken while Ben stacked plates in the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“The salad needed more salt.”

“No one noticed.”

They stood together in the quiet kitchen, tired and pleased, looking at the glasses, crumbs, and wilted tulip leaves scattered across the table. Then Ben turned on the faucet, and Maya picked up a dish towel.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Mara stood at the counter chopping parsley while Ben crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded numbers on the temperature dial.

“Is that four hundred?” he asked.

“It’s either four hundred or broil,” Mara said. “So keep an eye on the chicken.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their new apartment outside Baltimore. Half the boxes were still unpacked, so Ben carried two into the bedroom and shut the door. Mara cleared mail from the table, then realized they only owned five matching plates.

“We can use the blue one,” Ben said.

“The blue one is chipped.”

“It has character.”

At six-fifteen, the chicken was browning, the rice was resting, and Mara was still in her work clothes. She hurried to change while Ben made a salad and dropped half a cucumber on the floor. Their doorbell rang just as he was wiping it up.

Nina and Paul arrived with wine. Ten minutes later, Jess and Omar brought a bakery pie in a cardboard box. Everyone crowded into the narrow kitchen, offering to help. Mara gave Nina the salad bowl, and Ben asked Omar to open the wine.

Dinner began with an apology about the mismatched plates and continued without anyone caring. The chicken was slightly dry, but the rice had absorbed the lemony pan juices. Paul told a story about getting locked out of his office. Jess asked how Mara and Ben liked living together.

“We’re learning,” Mara said.

“For example,” Ben added, “apparently boxes don’t count as furniture.”

Under the table, Mara nudged his foot, smiling.

Afterward, Ben made coffee while Mara divided the pie. Their friends stayed later than expected, talking over empty plates. When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment was quiet and messy.

Mara began stacking dishes. Ben turned on the faucet and rolled up his sleeves.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crowded sink and the half-empty wine bottles.

“Definitely,” she said, handing him the first plate.


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

“Four hundred is somewhere around here,” he said, turning the knob carefully.

“That inspires confidence,” Maya replied.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they’d hosted since moving in together three months earlier. Their place in Columbus was still half-finished: framed prints leaned against the living-room wall, and a sealed box of books served as an end table.

Daniel slid a tray of chicken thighs into the oven, then cleared mail from the dining table. Maya stirred couscous and tasted the dressing for the salad. It needed salt. Daniel disagreed, tasted it again, and admitted she was right.

At six fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full of moving supplies.

For the first half hour, everyone stood in the kitchen, though there was barely room. Daniel opened bottles and kept an eye on the chicken. Maya passed around olives and apologized for the smoke alarm when it chirped after Daniel opened the oven.

“It’s not burning,” he announced, waving a dish towel beneath the alarm. “It’s just enthusiastic.”

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. One chair wobbled, so Maya folded a coaster beneath its shortest leg. They talked about work, rising rent, a recent basketball game, and whether anyone actually enjoyed running. The chicken was slightly dry, but the salad disappeared, and everyone asked for more couscous.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, Maya began stacking plates while Daniel wrapped leftovers.

“We forgot to serve the bread,” she said, finding it untouched on top of the refrigerator.

Daniel tore off a piece. “Breakfast.”

They cleaned together in tired silence. The apartment looked messier than before, but warmer somehow. On the table, the flowers leaned sideways in a water pitcher, and six used glasses waited by the sink.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood over a pot of risotto, stirring steadily, while Ben crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Is it still wobbling?” she asked.

“Only if someone breathes near it.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Since moving in together eight months earlier, they had talked often about hosting dinner, but this was their first attempt. Their apartment in Columbus was small, and the table—usually Ben’s workspace—barely fit six.

Maya tasted the risotto and frowned. “It needs something.”

“Salt?”

“It always needs salt when you say that.”

Ben grinned and returned to the chair. After fixing it, he cleared his laptop and stacked unopened mail on the bedroom dresser. Maya grated Parmesan while he set out mismatched plates: two white, two blue, and two with faded green borders from his grandmother.

At six-forty, the chicken was still pale. Ben raised the oven temperature while Maya moved the salad to a larger bowl. They bumped into each other twice in the narrow kitchen.

“Sorry,” they said together.

The doorbell rang at seven-oh-five. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wine while Ben sliced bread and Maya spooned risotto into a serving dish.

Dinner was not perfect. The chicken took longer than planned, and the risotto thickened while they waited. Still, everyone ate. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous office retreat, then to summer travel plans nobody had booked.

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

Ben filled the sink with soapy water. Maya wrapped the remaining chicken and leaned against the counter.

“That went well,” he said.

“The chair survived.”

“So did we.”

She handed him a plate to wash, and together they began cleaning the crowded kitchen.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Somewhere in between,” she said. “Our oven believes in compromise.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment in Columbus, Ohio. Tonight, four friends were coming for dinner, the first gathering they had hosted since moving in. Their dining table was barely large enough for six, so Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor while Maya stirred lemon zest into a bowl of yogurt.

At six, Daniel discovered they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya cleared unopened mail from the table and moved a dying basil plant to the bedroom windowsill. When he returned, he carried two bags of ice and a bottle of sparkling water.

“They were out of lime,” he said.

“We have lemon.”

“Compromise again.”

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and introduced Priya, his coworker, to Maya’s college friend, Erin. Maya pulled the chicken from the oven and frowned at the pale skin.

“It’s cooked,” Daniel said after checking the thermometer.

“It looks tired.”

They laughed and served it anyway, alongside roasted potatoes and a salad that Daniel had nearly forgotten to dress. Conversation moved from rent increases to a new movie, then to Priya’s disastrous attempt at cutting her own bangs.

Halfway through dinner, one of the metal chairs squeaked ominously. Everyone froze. Daniel offered his seat, but their friend Marcus shifted carefully and declared the chair structurally sound.

After dessert, Maya made coffee while Daniel stacked plates in the sink. Their guests stayed later than expected, talking over the last cookies.

When the door finally closed, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

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

He handed her a dish towel and turned on the water.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Somewhere in between,” Maya said. “Our oven believes in compromise.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the hallway. Daniel had spent the afternoon moving a stack of mail off the dining table and wiping dust from the windowsill. Maya had shopped for groceries, then returned for the bread she had forgotten.

Now Daniel seasoned chicken thighs while Maya stirred rice with toasted almonds. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, trading spoons, opening drawers, and occasionally bumping hips.

At six fifteen, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled up on the bed. Someone noticed the new lamp in the living room, and Daniel admitted they had bought it three months earlier but had only assembled it that morning.

Dinner was slightly late. The chicken skin was crisp, though the rice stuck to the bottom of the pot. Maya scraped out the good portion while Daniel filled water glasses and found an extra fork. Around the table, they talked about rent increases, a coworker’s wedding, and a disastrous attempt at online dating. Maya caught Daniel’s eye when everyone laughed, and he raised his glass toward her.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger and much quieter.

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken and put the flowers in an old pasta-sauce jar.

“That went well,” he said.

“No one mentioned the burnt rice.”

“They ate it.”

Together they carried dishes into the kitchen. Daniel washed while Maya dried, both tired but pleased, listening to the radiator knock behind the wall.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Claire stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked browned or merely pale.

“Give it ten more minutes,” Claire said.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And I was right then, too.”

Marcus closed the oven and set the timer. They had invited four friends, which was the most their narrow dining area could hold. Earlier, they had carried the small desk into the bedroom and extended the secondhand table with a folding card table. The two surfaces were different heights, but a tablecloth mostly hid the problem.

Claire tasted the salad dressing and added salt. Marcus filled a pitcher with water and lemon slices, then cleared a stack of mail from the counter. When the buzzer sounded, they looked around at the same time.

“Shoes,” Claire said.

A pair of sneakers still sat beside the table. Marcus kicked them toward the bedroom just as their friends came up the stairs carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box.

Soon the apartment grew warm and noisy. Marcus carved the chicken while Claire passed roasted potatoes and apologized for the mismatched plates. Nobody cared. One friend told a story about getting locked out of her office; another asked whether the landlord had finally fixed the bathroom fan.

Halfway through dinner, the smoke detector chirped. Marcus jumped up, waving a dish towel beneath it, while Claire opened the window. Cold November air rushed in, and everyone laughed.

Dessert was apple pie from the bakery, served with ice cream that had softened in the freezer door. After the last guests left, Claire gathered glasses while Marcus folded the card table.

“That went well,” he said.

“We nearly smoked them out.”

“But we didn’t.”

They stood together at the sink, passing plates back and forth. The apartment was quiet again, cluttered with crumbs and empty bottles. Claire leaned against his shoulder.

“Next time,” Marcus said, “we order pizza.”

Claire handed him another plate. “Next time, you check the chicken.”


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled like garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the open oven, trying to determine whether the chicken was browning or burning.

“It’s fine,” Maya said without looking up.

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I can smell the difference.”

Daniel closed the oven and set the timer for another fifteen minutes. They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the neighbors. Two folding chairs leaned against the refrigerator, and the coffee table had been pushed under the window to make room.

While Maya finished the salad, Daniel cleared a stack of mail from the dining table and found candles in a drawer. One was bent from summer heat, but it stood upright in a jam jar. Maya tasted the dressing, frowned, and handed him the spoon.

“More salt?” she asked.

“Maybe honey.”

She added both.

The doorbell rang at six-thirty, exactly when Daniel realized they had forgotten to chill the wine. He put the bottles in the freezer as Maya welcomed Priya and Sam, taking their coats and shifting a pile of shoes out of the hallway. Ten minutes later, Luis and Erin arrived carrying bread and a grocery-store bouquet.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Daniel carved the chicken at the counter because there was no space on the table. Maya passed bowls and reminded everyone that the serving dish was hot. The salad was overdressed, and one tray of potatoes had gone soft, but nobody complained. Sam told a story about getting locked out of his office, and Priya laughed so hard she knocked over her water.

After dessert—ice cream with store-bought cookies—the guests lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the parsley scattered across the floor.

“It did,” she agreed, handing him a dish towel.


By five o’clock, Lena had cleared the stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which tasks each disliked. Lena hated cutting onions; Marcus avoided cleaning the bathroom.

“Six people, eight plates,” Lena said, counting the mismatched dishes. “We’re fine.”

“Unless someone brings a date.”

“No one is bringing a date.”

The plan was simple: chili, cornbread, salad, and ice cream. Marcus had started the chili that morning, but when he lifted the lid, he frowned.

“It’s too thick.”

Lena looked over his shoulder. “Add broth.”

“We’re out.”

She pulled a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to him. “Use half. Save half for yourself.”

While Marcus adjusted the chili, Lena set the table with cloth napkins they rarely used. One had a faded stain, so she folded it carefully beneath a fork. Then she swept crumbs from under the couch and moved a basket of laundry into their bedroom.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Marcus took drink orders while Lena found a jar for the flowers.

At dinner, the cornbread crumbled when Marcus cut it, but everyone took seconds. Conversation moved from a coworker’s strange resignation to rising rent and a disastrous weekend camping trip. Lena noticed Marcus quietly refilling water glasses. He noticed her scrape the last chili from the pot into their friend Devon’s bowl.

After dessert, two guests washed dishes despite Lena’s protests. Marcus wrapped leftover cornbread in foil while Lena packed chili into a plastic container for Devon.

When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger.

Marcus looked at the crowded sink. “Tomorrow?”

Lena nodded and leaned against him. “Definitely tomorrow.”

They turned off the dining-room light, leaving the clean plates stacked on the counter and one half-finished bottle of wine between them.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter, zesting a second lemon over a bowl of ricotta while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“375. Definitely. Please don’t burn the chicken before anyone arrives.”

Daniel turned the knob and rose, wiping his hands on his jeans. They had invited four friends, which qualified as a small dinner but still required borrowing two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs. While Maya spooned ricotta onto toasted baguette slices, Daniel carried the chairs up, then cleared a stack of unopened mail from the dining table.

At six fifteen, Maya changed her shirt after splashing olive oil on the first one. Daniel set out mismatched plates and discovered they owned only five forks.

“I’ll use a spoon,” he said.

“You’re not eating pasta with a spoon.”

“I’ve overcome greater challenges.”

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full. Daniel poured drinks while Maya slid the chicken into the oven, and everyone crowded into the kitchen despite her suggestion that they sit down.

Dinner was twenty minutes late. One pan of potatoes stuck badly, and Daniel scraped them loose while Maya tossed the salad. At the table, the folding chairs wobbled, the chicken was slightly too salty, and nobody seemed to mind. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous office retreat, then to whether anyone actually enjoyed running.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the sink. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel found a cookie under a napkin and split it with Maya.

They stood together in the messy kitchen, looking at the crowded sink.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Maya nodded. She turned off the dining-room lamp, and they left the dishes where they were.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, garlic, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while checking the recipe on her phone.

“Did you get Parmesan?” she asked.

Evan stopped halfway through arranging mismatched plates on the table. “I got cheese.”

“That answer worries me.”

He opened the refrigerator and held up a green can. Maya laughed despite herself.

“That’s not Parmesan. That’s dust.”

“It says Parmesan.”

Their friends were due at six-thirty, and neither of them had hosted dinner since moving into the apartment in Columbus three months earlier. Evan grabbed his keys and volunteered to run to the grocery store. Before leaving, he also took the recycling downstairs, which Maya had reminded him about twice.

While he was gone, Maya lowered the sauce, sliced a loaf of bread, and moved a stack of unopened mail from the coffee table into their bedroom. She considered lighting a candle, then remembered that one of their guests was sensitive to scents.

Evan returned with a wedge of Parmesan, two bottles of wine, and a bag of ice. Together they finished the salad. He grated cheese while Maya drained the pasta. When the doorbell rang, they exchanged a quick look at the sink full of pans.

“Close enough,” Evan said.

Their friends Lena, Marcus, and Priya arrived carrying flowers and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Wine was opened. The pasta stuck together slightly, and one piece of garlic bread burned along the edge, but everyone ate seconds.

After dinner, they played cards around the coffee table. Marcus spilled wine, and Evan fetched towels while Maya lifted the rug. Nobody made a fuss.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Maya washed glasses while Evan packed leftovers into containers.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded kitchen and the flowers leaning in a water pitcher.

“It did,” she agreed. “Next time, real napkins.”

“And real Parmesan,” he said.

She handed him a dish towel. “Now you’re learning.”


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant Maya kept on the kitchen windowsill. She stood at the counter chopping carrots while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature markings.

“Four hundred is approximately here,” he said, turning the dial.

“Approximately doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“It’s an old oven. Confidence would be dishonest.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. Daniel had spent the afternoon carrying mismatched chairs up from the basement storage room. Maya had planned the menu: roast chicken, potatoes, salad, and an apple crisp.

At six, Daniel set the table with their everyday plates. When he realized they had only five forks, Maya found a box of plastic utensils left over from a work picnic.

“We’ll give the plastic fork to Ben,” she said. “He won’t care.”

Their first guest arrived early, holding a bottle of wine. The others came within twenty minutes, bringing bread, flowers, and a six-pack. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full.

The chicken took longer than expected. While everyone talked in the living room, Daniel returned to the kitchen every few minutes to check the thermometer. Maya poured wine and passed around crackers, pretending the delay had been planned.

At last, they crowded around the small table. Ben’s chair wobbled, someone knocked over a water glass, and the potatoes were slightly undercooked. Still, everyone ate seconds.

After dinner, Maya brought out the apple crisp. Daniel had forgotten to buy ice cream, so they served it plain. No one complained.

By eleven, the guests had left. The apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses and plates. Daniel filled the sink while Maya wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the plastic fork on Ben’s empty plate and smiled. “Approximately,” she said.


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

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

Maya pressed one finger to the blackened edge. “It’s aggressively toasted.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner-party tasks without discussing them. Maya handled the chicken and salad; Daniel cleared the stack of mail from the dining table, chilled the wine, and tried to make their mismatched chairs look intentional.

Four friends were coming. It was the first time they had hosted since moving to Columbus, and Maya kept checking the chicken’s temperature as if their social future depended on it.

Daniel opened the window to release the smoke. Then he found a half-used baguette in the freezer and sliced it for garlic bread. Maya tasted the dressing, frowned, and handed him a spoon.

“More salt?”

“More honey.”

She added both.

At seven, Priya and Ben arrived with flowers from the grocery store, still wrapped in plastic. Luis came next, carrying beer, and Tasha texted that she was circling the block. Daniel ran downstairs to guide her to the visitor parking while Maya transferred the chicken to a platter and hid the roasting pan in the sink.

Dinner began awkwardly, with everyone complimenting the apartment. Then Ben knocked his fork onto the floor, Luis told a story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting, and the room loosened. Daniel refilled glasses. Maya passed the potatoes and noticed, with relief, that people took seconds.

When the smoke alarm chirped during reheating, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya stood on a chair and pulled the battery. Their friends applauded.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. The table was crowded with glasses and crumpled napkins. Maya leaned against the counter while Daniel packed leftovers into containers.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the empty platter and the flowers in a water pitcher.

“Mostly,” she said. “Next time, we buy bread.”

Daniel nodded. “And a chair.”

They washed the dishes together, passing plates through the warm, soapy water.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of risotto, while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Try it now,” he said.

Maya sat briefly, still holding the wooden spoon. The chair stayed level.

“Good. But we need another place setting.”

Daniel opened the hall closet and found the folding chair behind the vacuum. They were expecting four friends, which made six people around a table designed for four. He shifted the lamp to the windowsill while Maya arranged mismatched plates, alternating the blue ones with the white ones so it looked intentional.

At six fifteen, the chicken was roasting and the risotto had thickened too quickly. Daniel added warm broth while Maya changed out of her flour-dusted sweatshirt. When she returned, he was tasting from the spoon.

“It needs salt,” he said.

“It always needs salt to you.”

She added a pinch anyway.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed because the closet was full. Daniel poured drinks and introduced Nina, a coworker, to Sam and Luis from their old neighborhood. Maya moved between the kitchen and table, accepting help only when Nina insisted on tossing the salad.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. Someone bumped the table, spilling water near the bread basket. Daniel caught the glass before it rolled off, and Maya returned with a dish towel. The chicken was a little dry, but the risotto disappeared.

Afterward, they opened the cookies and made coffee. Conversation drifted from rent increases to bad movies to a friend’s new puppy. By ten thirty, everyone had gone.

Daniel washed while Maya dried. They worked in comfortable silence, stacking plates and fitting leftovers into containers.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the wine stain on the tablecloth.

“Mostly,” she said, smiling. “Next time, fewer people.”

“Or a bigger table.”

They both knew which was more likely.


At five on Saturday, Lena stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Marcus dragged the vacuum from the hall closet. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that they could talk without raising their voices.

“Did you get ice?” she asked.

Marcus stopped unwinding the cord. “I got wine.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He checked the grocery receipt on his phone, sighed, and reached for his jacket. Before leaving, he moved the dining table away from the wall and added the folding chairs they kept under the bed.

They were hosting four friends, the most their apartment could hold comfortably. Lena stirred a pot of tomato sauce and tasted it. Too acidic. She added a pinch of sugar, then began arranging salad in the blue bowl Marcus’s mother had given them. When he returned with ice, he also brought flowers from the corner market.

“For the table,” he said.

“The table is already full.”

They put the flowers on the windowsill.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying bread, beer, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Marcus poured drinks and introduced two people who had never met, while Lena rescued the garlic bread just before it burned. During dinner, one folding chair wobbled, so Marcus slipped a coaster under its short leg. Lena passed bowls of pasta and reminded everyone that the red pepper flakes were stronger than they looked.

Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer. Someone spilled wine. Lena fetched a towel while Marcus lifted the plates out of the way, and the stain mostly came out.

By ten, the bakery box was empty except for crumbs. Their friends left with leftovers packed into mismatched containers.

Marcus washed dishes while Lena dried. The apartment smelled of coffee and garlic, and the floor needed vacuuming again.

“That went well,” he said.

Lena stacked the last plate. “Next time, someone else hosts.”

They turned off the kitchen light and left the flowers glowing faintly in the streetlight.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel leaned over the stove, trying to decide whether the chicken needed another ten minutes.

“It’s going to dry out,” Maya said.

“It’s still pink near the bone.”

“You’ve opened the oven four times.”

Daniel closed the door and reset the timer for seven minutes. They had lived together for two years, long enough to recognize the difference between real irritation and the kind produced by hunger and company arriving soon.

Their friends Lena, Chris, and Omar were due at six thirty. Maya arranged mismatched plates around the small dining table, then moved a stack of unopened mail from one chair to the bedroom. Daniel took recycling downstairs and returned carrying a bag of ice from the corner store.

At six twenty, Maya changed her shirt after splashing olive oil on the first one. Daniel swept parsley stems into the trash and lit the candle they usually saved for power outages.

Lena arrived first with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread. Chris came ten minutes later, apologizing about traffic, and Omar buzzed from the lobby just as Daniel was carving the chicken.

Dinner was crowded but easy. They passed roasted potatoes across the table, argued about which streaming service had the worst interface, and listened to Omar describe his new supervisor. When Maya noticed the salad was still in the refrigerator, everyone laughed, and she brought it out anyway.

After dessert—store-bought pie warmed in the oven—Chris helped collect plates while Lena wrapped leftover chicken in foil. Omar missed his bus because he was still talking in the hallway.

By ten thirty, the apartment was quiet again. Maya washed glasses while Daniel loaded the dishwasher, rearranging everything twice to make it fit.

“That went well,” he said.

“The chicken was a little dry.”

Daniel handed her the last wineglass. “Seven minutes too long?”

“Maybe five.”

They turned off the kitchen light and left the remaining dishes for morning.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the bread Elena had forgotten in the oven.

“Not burned,” Marcus said, lifting the loaf from the rack. “Deeply toasted.”

Elena opened the window above the sink and waved a dish towel at the smoke detector. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Minneapolis.

While Elena chopped parsley for the pasta, Marcus cleared mail from the table and carried two half-unpacked boxes into the bedroom. He returned with mismatched candles and set them in old jam jars.

“Romantic,” Elena said.

“Affordable,” he replied.

At six-fifteen, she tasted the sauce and frowned. Marcus added salt, then tasted it from the same spoon.

“Better,” he said.

“You always say that after adding salt.”

Their first guests, Priya and Dan, arrived with a bottle of wine and a bag of ice. Ten minutes later, Tasha and Will came carrying grocery-store flowers. Marcus found a pitcher for the flowers while Elena took coats and tried to keep everyone from noticing the laundry drying behind the bedroom door.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. They passed bowls over elbows, and Dan dropped a piece of bread into his water glass. The pasta had cooled slightly, but no one seemed to mind. Marcus told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat, and Elena corrected his exaggerations until the table was laughing.

After dessert—vanilla ice cream with warm berries—the guests helped stack plates by the sink. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again.

Marcus filled the basin with soapy water while Elena wrapped the leftover bread.

“That went well,” he said.

“We need more forks.”

“We need fewer friends.”

She bumped him with her hip and began drying the plates he handed her. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, candle wax hardened in the jam jars, and the apartment, though still small and cluttered, felt more like theirs.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Nina stood at the counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked done.

“It’s browned,” he said.

“Brown isn’t a temperature.”

Marcus sighed, found the meat thermometer, and checked. “One fifty-eight.”

“Back in.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Ohio. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of those chairs had come from the balcony and still needed wiping.

While Nina finished the salad, Marcus cleared a stack of mail from the table and carried it to their bedroom. He returned with mismatched cloth napkins they had received from his mother.

At six fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Nina looked at the clock.

“They’re early.”

“Only Rachel is early,” Marcus said, pressing the intercom button.

Rachel arrived carrying sparkling water and a bakery box. Soon after, Devon, Luis, and Priya crowded into the entryway, taking off damp coats and asking where to put their shoes.

Marcus poured drinks while Nina transferred the chicken to a platter. When the smoke alarm chirped from the heat, he waved a dish towel beneath it, and everyone laughed.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. Devon told a story about locking himself out of his car. Priya asked for the salad recipe, though Nina admitted the dressing came from a bottle. Marcus cut the last piece of bread in half so Rachel and Luis could share it.

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

Nina filled the sink with soapy water. Marcus wrapped the leftover chicken and stacked containers in the refrigerator.

“That went well,” he said.

“We need more forks.”

“We need a bigger table.”

Nina handed him a wet plate to dry. “Forks are cheaper.”

Marcus nodded, and they worked side by side until the counters were clear.


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

“Three-seventy-five is probably there,” he said, pointing to a scratch near the middle.

“That’s reassuring.”

They had lived in the apartment for eleven months, long enough to know which floorboard creaked and which window leaked, but not long enough to persuade the landlord to replace the stove. Tonight, four friends were coming for dinner, their first time hosting since moving in together.

Daniel slid a pan of chicken and potatoes into the oven. Maya tasted the salad dressing, added lemon, and handed him the spoon. He nodded, then made a face.

“Too much mustard?”

“Just enough to wake people up.”

By six-thirty, the living room looked almost intentional. Daniel stacked mail inside a desk drawer while Maya moved a dying houseplant from the coffee table to the bedroom. They disagreed briefly about music, settled on an old soul playlist, and lit two candles that smelled faintly of cedar.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, bread, and a supermarket pie. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wrong kitchen cabinet three times looking for glasses. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya rescued the potatoes, laughing so hard she had to set the pan down.

Dinner was served twenty minutes late. The chicken was a little dry, but the salad disappeared quickly, and everyone praised the potatoes. Around the table, they talked about rent increases, a coworker’s strange promotion, and whether anyone still watched local news.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the sink. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya filled the basin with soapy water. Daniel wrapped the leftover pie.

“That went well,” he said.

“You nearly set off the building alarm.”

“But I didn’t.”

She bumped his hip with hers, and he picked up a dish towel. Together, they cleaned the kitchen while the last song played.


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

“Is that three-fifty or four-fifty?” he asked.

“Three-fifty. Unless you want to serve charcoal.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they’d hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore. Their dining table, bought secondhand, could seat six if nobody minded touching elbows.

Daniel slid the lasagna into the oven. Maya cleared mail from the table and carried it to the bedroom, where she hid it in a laundry basket. When she returned, Daniel was arranging mismatched plates.

“The blue one has a crack,” she said.

“It’s decorative.”

“It leaks.”

He replaced it.

At six twenty, the salad was dressed, the bread was wrapped in foil, and Maya had changed her shirt twice. Daniel opened a bottle of wine, then realized they had no corkscrew. He knocked on the neighbor’s door and returned holding one shaped like a parrot.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing grocery-store flowers, sparkling water, and a chocolate cake. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker on the windowsill.

During dinner, the table wobbled whenever anyone reached for the bread. Daniel folded a napkin and pushed it under one leg while Maya served squares of lasagna. The edges were darker than planned, but everyone asked for seconds.

Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to whether people actually used their air fryers. Maya noticed Daniel quietly refill water glasses. He noticed her relax enough to leave the dirty serving spoon on the counter.

After the guests left, the apartment seemed suddenly larger. Maya washed plates while Daniel dried them.

“That went well,” he said.

“The blue plate survived.”

“Decorative crack.”

She bumped him with her hip. Near midnight, they ate the last two bites of cake over the sink, too tired to find clean forks.


At four on Saturday, Lena stood in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Marcus, reading the recipe on her phone for the third time. The chicken was supposed to marinate overnight. She had given it forty minutes.

“It’ll be fine,” Marcus said, squeezing past her with a folding chair tucked under one arm. “Nobody coming tonight has ever refused free food.”

“They’re bringing wine. That makes it a transaction.”

He laughed and carried the chair into the living room. Their dining table seated four, and they had invited six people, so Marcus had borrowed two chairs from the downstairs neighbor. Neither matched. One was metal, the other had a faded floral cushion.

While Lena chopped parsley and garlic, Marcus cleared mail, charging cables, and a half-finished puzzle from the table. He found the good napkins in a kitchen drawer and ironed them on the counter beneath a dish towel. Lena noticed but said nothing; he liked finding small ways to make things look intentional.

At six, the smoke detector went off while she seared the chicken. Marcus opened the balcony door and waved a baking sheet beneath the alarm. Their cat, Noodle, fled under the bed.

The first guests arrived ten minutes early. Priya brought a bottle of red and a grocery-store bouquet. Lena put the flowers in a water pitcher because they didn’t own a vase. Marcus took coats and introduced Priya to Daniel, who had come with olives and an apology for forgetting dessert.

By seven, everyone was crowded around the table. The chicken was slightly dry, but the roasted potatoes were crisp, and Marcus’s salad—made after he decided the meal needed “something green”—disappeared quickly.

Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to an argument about the best highway route to the coast. Lena refilled glasses. Marcus passed the potatoes and kept Noodle from climbing onto Daniel’s lap.

After the last guests left, the apartment smelled of garlic and wine. Lena stacked plates while Marcus wrapped leftovers.

“Successful transaction?” he asked.

She looked at the mismatched chairs, the empty serving dish, and the flowers leaning out of the pitcher.

“Mostly,” she said. “Next time, we order pizza.”

Marcus handed her a dish towel. “I’ll still iron the napkins.”


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the cinnamon candle Maya had lit to cover the faint odor of their neighbor’s cigarette smoke. She stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel carried a folding chair up from the basement.

“It still wobbles,” he said, testing it on the tile.

“Put it by the wall. Give it to Kevin.”

“Because we don’t like Kevin?”

“Because Kevin weighs a hundred and thirty pounds.”

They were expecting four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving in together last spring. Their dining table officially seated four, so Daniel extended it with a card table, then covered the uneven surfaces with two overlapping tablecloths. Maya stepped back to inspect his work.

“It looks like a low-budget wedding.”

“Romantic,” he said.

They had divided the menu: Maya made roast chicken and salad; Daniel handled potatoes and dessert. At six fifteen, he discovered he had forgotten vanilla extract. After a brief debate, he walked to the corner market while Maya swept parsley stems into the trash and checked the chicken again.

Their friends arrived nearly at once, bringing wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread no one had requested but everyone ate. Coats piled on the bed. Kevin got the folding chair and did not complain.

During dinner, the potatoes were slightly undercooked, and the smoke alarm chirped when Daniel opened the oven. Maya waved a dish towel beneath it while everyone laughed and Daniel rescued the apple crisp.

Later, conversation drifted from rent increases to a friend’s new job in Denver. Daniel refilled glasses. Maya brought out the crisp, which was darker around the edges but good with ice cream.

After the last guests left, the apartment seemed abruptly quiet. Maya gathered plates while Daniel folded the questionable chair.

“That went well,” he said.

“No one got food poisoning.”

“And Kevin survived.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, bumping elbows at the sink. Near midnight, they ate the remaining apple crisp straight from the pan, standing barefoot in the kitchen amid the pleasant disorder they had made.


By six o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the vanilla candle Maya had lit to cover the faint odor of roasted broccoli. She stood at the stove, whisking a pan sauce, while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of their mismatched chairs.

“Is that actually helping?” Maya asked.

“It’s helping me feel useful.”

“You could set out the glasses.”

Daniel gave the chair one last turn with the screwdriver. “Then someone will sit here and survive.”

They had invited four friends, which was the maximum their small Ohio apartment could hold without borrowing furniture from the neighbors. Daniel unfolded two TV trays and covered them with dish towels. Maya adjusted the salad, adding more walnuts after deciding it looked sparse.

At six-thirty, the chicken was resting, the rice was warm, and Daniel had changed his shirt twice. Maya was still wearing her cooking apron when the buzzer sounded.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened a window after the smoke detector chirped when Maya reheated the broccoli.

Dinner began awkwardly, with everyone balancing serving bowls and apologizing for bumping elbows. Then Priya told a story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work, and the table relaxed into laughter. Daniel kept water glasses filled and carved the chicken when Maya admitted she hated doing it. Maya remembered that Luis didn’t eat dairy and quietly moved the buttered rolls away from his plate, replacing them with extra rice.

After dessert, they played cards at the coffee table. Daniel argued cheerfully about the rules, while Maya collected plates and listened from the kitchen. He joined her a few minutes later, carrying a tower of glasses.

When the last guests left, it was nearly midnight. The apartment looked smaller than before, crowded with crumbs, bottles, and damp dish towels.

“That went well,” Daniel said, turning on the faucet.

Maya handed him a plate to wash. “The chair held.”

“So did we.”

She smiled, leaned against his shoulder for a moment, and then reached for the next dish.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, garlic, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while Daniel unfolded the dining table’s extra leaf.

“It’s sticking again,” he said, crouching beneath the table.

“You have to lift the left side first.”

“I am lifting the left side.”

“That’s the right side.”

Daniel looked up, sighed, and switched hands. The leaf slid into place.

They had invited four friends for dinner, which was about the maximum their one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore could hold without someone eating on the windowsill. Maya had planned baked ziti, salad, and garlic bread. Daniel was responsible for drinks and dessert. He had bought two bottles of wine, sparkling water, and a chocolate cake from the grocery store, carefully transferring the cake to their own plate so it looked homemade.

At six fifteen, Maya realized they were out of Parmesan. Daniel put on his sneakers and jogged to the corner market. While he was gone, she set the table with mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into rough triangles.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing beer, flowers, and an unexpected container of homemade pickles. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel opened wine while Maya pulled the bubbling ziti from the oven.

During dinner, everyone talked over one another—about a new supervisor, rising rent, a neighbor’s noisy dog. Daniel noticed Maya had barely sat down and took over refilling glasses and passing seconds. Later, she cut the cake while he cleared plates.

One friend spilled wine near the rug, but Daniel caught most of it with a napkin. Maya brought salt, and three people offered conflicting cleaning advice.

By eleven, the guests had left. The apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

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

Daniel examined the stained napkin in his hand. “The rug survived.”

They ate two leftover forkfuls of cake over the sink, then began wrapping the ziti for tomorrow’s lunch.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to read the faded temperature dial.

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Split the difference,” Maya said. “The chicken will tell us.”

They had invited four friends, which was two more people than their small dining table could comfortably hold. Daniel carried in a folding chair from the bedroom and wiped dust from its seat. Maya set mismatched plates around the table, then shifted everything when she realized the serving bowl would not fit.

They worked without much discussion. Daniel rinsed rice and measured water with a coffee mug because the measuring cup was missing. Maya dressed the salad, tasted it, and added salt. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

At six-forty, their first guest texted that she was running late. This was a relief. The chicken was still pale, and Maya had forgotten to buy ice. Daniel put on his shoes and jogged to the corner store. He returned carrying two bags, having also bought sparkling water and a bunch of tulips.

“For the table,” he said.

“There’s no room on the table.”

They put the flowers on the windowsill.

By seven-fifteen, everyone had arrived. Coats piled on the bed, and the apartment filled with overlapping conversations. Daniel carved the chicken in the kitchen while Maya passed around drinks. One friend brought bread; another arrived with a chocolate cake tilted inside its box.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Knees bumped under the table. The rice stuck slightly to the pot, and the chicken was a little dry, but no one complained. They talked about rent increases, a new job, and a neighbor’s noisy dog.

After their friends left, Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. They stood side by side at the sink, tired and quiet.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the leaning stack of dishes. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

He handed her a towel, and they began.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, squinting at the thermometer.

“It says three-fifty,” he said.

“The dial says four hundred.”

“That explains why the potatoes look nervous.”

Maya laughed and slid the parsley into a bowl. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Minneapolis. Their dining table, bought secondhand, seated four comfortably and six with negotiation.

Daniel lowered the heat and turned the potatoes. Maya tasted the salad dressing, added salt, then handed him a spoon. He nodded seriously before adding a little more mustard.

At six, they cleared mail from the kitchen counter and carried two folding chairs up from the storage locker. Daniel set the table with mismatched plates while Maya lit a candle and immediately blew it out because the scent competed with dinner.

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, sparkling water, and a loaf of bread nobody had requested but everyone welcomed. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya finished the chicken in a skillet, asking Nora about her new job over the hiss of butter.

Dinner was crowded and slightly late. One potato rolled off the serving dish, and Daniel caught it against his shirt. Everyone applauded. Maya noticed the chicken was a little dry, but their friends asked for seconds and used the bread to wipe sauce from their plates.

Afterward, Daniel made coffee while Maya divided the last piece of apple tart into six narrow slices. They stayed at the table talking about rent increases, weekend plans, and a neighbor’s missing cat.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel washed dishes; Maya dried and stacked them.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded drying rack and the wine stain on the tablecloth.

“Definitely,” she said. “Next time, paper plates.”

He handed her another dish. “Next time?”

She smiled. “Maybe in spring.”


At five-thirty, Nina stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Marcus dragged the vacuum cleaner around the living room. They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to know which tasks each disliked. Nina hated vacuuming; Marcus found chopping herbs unbearably tedious.

“Under the couch,” Nina called.

“I’m getting there.”

“You said that last time.”

Marcus knelt and discovered two bottle caps, a missing sock, and a receipt from January. He held up the sock like evidence. “This is yours.”

Nina glanced over. “Definitely yours.”

Their four friends were due at seven. Nina had promised roast chicken and potatoes, while Marcus had volunteered to make salad and buy wine. At six-fifteen, he realized the salad greens were still in the trunk of his car. Nina laughed so hard she had to put down the wooden spoon.

By six-forty, the apartment smelled of garlic and rosemary. Marcus set the table with their mismatched plates, then folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Nina changed her shirt after splattering it with pan sauce. They bumped into each other twice in the narrow hallway.

The doorbell rang at seven-oh-five. Their friends arrived carrying a bakery pie, sparkling water, and a houseplant in a blue ceramic pot. Marcus took coats while Nina poured drinks. For a while, everyone crowded in the kitchen, talking over the hiss of the oven.

The chicken needed another fifteen minutes, so Marcus brought out olives and crackers. No one seemed bothered. When they finally sat down, Nina carved the chicken while Marcus passed the potatoes. Conversation moved from work complaints to a neighbor’s noisy dog, then to summer travel plans nobody had booked.

After dessert, one friend washed dishes despite Nina’s protests. Marcus packed leftovers into old takeout containers. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Nina watered the new plant at the sink. Marcus gathered wineglasses from the coffee table.

“That went well,” he said.

“It did,” she agreed, looking at the crowded drying rack. “Next time, we order pizza.”

Marcus nodded. “And still vacuum?”

“Especially vacuum.”


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, watching a pan of chicken thighs through the streaked glass.

“They’re not browning,” he said.

“Give them time,” Maya replied. “And stop opening the door.”

Daniel stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of those chairs had come from the balcony and still had dust in their metal joints.

While Maya mixed dressing for the salad, Daniel cleared mail from the table and carried an armful of shoes into the bedroom. They moved around each other in the narrow space with practiced adjustments: a hand at the waist, a quick step aside, a warning about the open dishwasher.

At six-fifteen, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya transferred the chicken to a serving dish and quietly scraped the darkest pieces of onion from the pan.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Someone knocked a fork onto the floor. Daniel told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at midnight, and Maya corrected his imitation of the neighbor’s dog. The chicken was slightly dry, but everyone took seconds of the potatoes.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Daniel divided the cookies onto small plates because they did not own a serving platter. Their friends stayed until nearly eleven, talking about rent increases, work schedules, and a summer trip nobody had planned yet.

When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger. Daniel gathered glasses. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded sink and smiled. “You can say that because you’re washing dishes.”

He turned on the faucet. “I was always washing dishes.”

Maya handed him the sponge, then dried while he washed. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner, and inside, they restored the apartment one plate at a time.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, chopping parsley for the roast chicken, while Daniel carried mismatched chairs from the bedroom.

“Six people, six seats,” he announced, setting down the folding chair they kept behind the winter coats.

“Seven,” Maya said. “Priya texted. She’s bringing Sam.”

Daniel looked at the table, then toward the desk. “Desk chair?”

“If you wipe the dust off.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough to own a good roasting pan but not a full set of wineglasses. Maya arranged water glasses beside two wineglasses, three tumblers, and a jam jar. Daniel found a clean dish towel and polished the silverware, then opened the oven to check the chicken.

“Don’t keep opening it,” Maya said.

“I’m monitoring.”

“You’re lowering the temperature.”

At six-thirty, the smoke alarm chirped. Daniel waved a cutting board beneath it while Maya opened the balcony door, laughing despite herself. The chicken was fine; butter from the potatoes had spilled onto the oven floor.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Priya’s boyfriend, Sam, took the desk chair without complaint. Daniel poured drinks while Maya finished the salad, and everyone crowded into the kitchen, offering help where none was possible.

Dinner began twenty minutes late. The chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes disappeared quickly. They talked about rent increases, a coworker’s strange resignation, and whether anyone still watched broadcast television. Daniel told a story Maya had heard twice before, but she added the detail he always forgot.

After dessert, their friends lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, Maya leaned against it.

“That went well,” Daniel said, surveying the plates.

“You’re washing.”

“I cooked.”

“You monitored.”

He smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and turned on the faucet. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken while he washed, and together they listened to the apartment settle back into quiet.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions, lemon, and the rosemary Daniel had chopped too finely. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of white beans while checking the chicken in the oven every few minutes.

“It won’t cook faster if you stare at it,” Maya said. She was kneeling beside the coffee table, sliding old magazines onto the bottom shelf.

“I’m making sure it doesn’t burn.”

“You’re letting the heat out.”

Daniel shut the oven door. “Fine. I’ll worry quietly.”

They had invited four friends, which was the most their small Ohio apartment could hold without borrowing chairs. Maya unfolded two metal ones from the hall closet and wiped dust from the seats. Daniel set out mismatched plates: three white, two blue, and one with a faded green border.

At six-fifteen, Maya changed her shirt after splashing salad dressing on it. Daniel tasted the beans and added salt. They passed each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, moving bowls, and asking questions neither waited to hear answered.

“Where’s the corkscrew?”

“Did you buy ice?”

“It’s in the freezer.”

“The corkscrew?”

“The ice.”

The buzzer sounded at six-thirty-eight. Their friends arrived carrying wine, a loaf of bread, and a grocery-store bouquet wrapped in plastic. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the window when the smoke alarm chirped as Daniel pulled out the chicken.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Maya kept water glasses filled and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat. Daniel carved the chicken at the counter, then sat down only after everyone else had food. The beans were slightly too salty, but their friend Leah asked for the recipe.

By ten, the guests had gone. The apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

“I’ll wash,” Daniel said.

“I’ll dry,” Maya replied.

They worked without hurrying. Outside, tires hissed on wet pavement. Maya stacked the clean plates, and Daniel wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded dish rack. “Next time, we order pizza.”

He nodded. “And still make the beans?”

“Less salt.”

“Deal.”


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to see whether the chicken was browning without opening the door again.

“It needs another twenty minutes,” Maya said.

“You can tell that from over there?”

“I can tell because you’ve checked it four times.”

Daniel stood and wiped his hands on a dish towel. They had invited four friends, which was not many, but their apartment made six people feel like a crowd. He carried a stack of mail into the bedroom and returned with two folding chairs from the hall closet.

Maya stirred the pot of rice and tasted it. “Too salty.”

Daniel took the spoon she offered. “A little. Add more water?”

She nodded, and he filled the kettle. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting sideways without speaking. After three years of living together, they knew who would reach for which drawer.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya transferred the chicken to a platter and scattered parsley over it.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. Someone knocked a fork onto the floor. The folding chair squeaked whenever Luis leaned back, so he finally stopped trying. Maya worried about the rice until Priya asked for seconds.

Halfway through the meal, Daniel realized they had forgotten the salad in the refrigerator. He brought it out, and everyone laughed as though the salad had made a late entrance on purpose.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the sink, despite Maya’s protests. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel found a wineglass on the windowsill and a napkin under the table.

Maya leaned against the counter, tired and pleased. “That went well.”

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

She handed him a dish towel. He turned on the water, and together they began cleaning up.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled like roasted garlic and furniture polish. Nina stood at the kitchen counter slicing mushrooms while Eric carried a stack of books from the coffee table to the bedroom.

“Not under the bed,” she called.

“I’m putting them on the desk.”

“The desk is worse.”

Eric reappeared, still holding the books. “Then they’re part of the décor.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving in together eight months earlier. The apartment, a second-floor rental in Columbus, was comfortable but narrow, and the dining table had come from a thrift store with only three matching chairs.

Eric borrowed two folding chairs from their downstairs neighbor. Nina covered the table with a blue cotton cloth and arranged mismatched glasses beside each plate. When she opened the oven, the chicken was browning faster than expected.

“Can you lower this rack?” she asked.

Eric pulled on the oven mitts. “I thought I was décor.”

“You’ve been promoted.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed despite Nina’s earlier objections to using the room for storage. In the kitchen, Eric mashed potatoes while talking to Marcus about a recent job interview. Nina stirred the pan sauce and asked Leah to taste it.

“More salt,” Leah said.

“Everyone always says more salt,” Nina replied, adding some anyway.

At the table, one folding chair wobbled. Eric folded a paper napkin and tucked it beneath a leg. The chicken was slightly dry, but the sauce helped, and nobody seemed to mind. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous camping trip, then to whether anyone actually enjoyed running.

After dessert, their friends helped carry dishes to the kitchen but left before the washing began. Nina filled the sink while Eric wrapped leftovers.

“That went well,” he said.

“The smoke alarm never went off.”

“A clear success.”

They worked side by side, passing plates between them. When the last glass was drying on a towel, Eric turned on the small speaker by the window. Nina leaned against him for a moment, both of them tired, looking at the crowded, untidy room they had made ready together.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the dining table and moved two unopened packages into the bedroom. Mark stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the pasta sauce.

“Smaller,” Elena said, passing behind him with a stack of plates.

Mark looked down. “They’ll cook down.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

He sighed, but gathered the onion pieces and chopped them again.

They had invited four friends for seven. It was their first dinner since moving into the apartment in Columbus, and they were still missing practical things. They owned only five matching forks, so Elena set one odd fork at Mark’s place. He noticed but didn’t object.

While the sauce simmered, Mark vacuumed the living room. Elena made a salad and discovered the cucumbers were soft. She cut away the worst parts, then changed her mind and walked to the corner market for new ones. On the way back, she texted Mark to put the bread in the oven.

At six-fifty, the bread was still on the counter.

“I forgot,” he said, already turning on the oven.

Elena stared at him, then laughed. “Fine. We’ll call it a second course.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box. Coats were piled on the bed. Someone asked for a bottle opener, and Mark searched three drawers before Elena found it beside the coffee maker.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. The sauce was slightly salty, the bread arrived halfway through the meal, and one chair wobbled until Mark folded a coaster under its leg. Elena kept water glasses filled while Mark passed bowls and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at two in the morning.

After dessert, everyone lingered over coffee. When the door finally closed behind the last guest, the apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

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

Mark held up the odd fork. “Nobody noticed.”

“I noticed.”

He kissed her forehead and turned on the faucet. She picked up a towel, and together they washed the remaining dishes.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked done.

“It’s been an hour,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Use the thermometer.”

Daniel found it in the utensil drawer beneath three spatulas and a pair of tongs. Their apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the vanilla candle Maya had lit to cover the earlier scent of burnt butter.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small dining table could hold if they added two folding chairs. Maya set out mismatched plates while Daniel cleared mail and a bicycle pump from the living room. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which tasks the other would forget. Maya filled the water pitcher. Daniel remembered ice.

At seven, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread from the bakery down the block. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full.

Daniel carved the chicken while Maya tossed the salad. When he dropped a slice onto the floor, they both stared at it.

“Five-second rule?” he asked.

“Trash,” she said, laughing.

At the table, everyone passed bowls carefully to avoid knocking over glasses. Conversation moved from a neighbor’s barking dog to health insurance, then to a friend’s new job in Denver. Maya noticed Daniel quietly give the crispiest potato to her. She refilled his wine.

Dessert was store-bought pie warmed in the oven. Nobody complained. By ten, the guests had left, taking the extra bread but forgetting the flowers.

The apartment was suddenly quiet. Daniel washed dishes while Maya dried them, their shoulders bumping at the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“We only lost one piece of chicken.”

“And one wineglass.”

Maya looked toward the table, where a cracked stem lay beside the candle.

“Next time,” she said, “paper cups.”

They finished cleaning, turned off the kitchen light, and left the last two plates in the rack to dry.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the faintly scorched dish towel Daniel had left too close to the stove.

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

Maya opened the kitchen window. “It’s smoking.”

“Barely.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the second-floor apartment in Ohio. The folding table they used as a desk had been cleared of laptops and mail. Maya covered it with a blue tablecloth while Daniel unfolded two borrowed chairs.

Maya chopped parsley for the salad and checked the chicken in the oven. Daniel stirred rice, then crouched to wipe a streak of sauce from the cabinet. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, trading spoons and opening drawers with their hips.

At six fifteen, Maya changed her shirt after splashing olive oil on it. Daniel set out mismatched glasses and counted the forks twice.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because there was no hall closet. For the first hour, everyone stood in the kitchen, though Maya kept suggesting the living room. Daniel poured drinks and told the story of the smoking towel, exaggerating until he had nearly started a fire.

Dinner was imperfect. The rice stuck to the pot, and one piece of chicken was undercooked, so Daniel quietly returned it to the oven. Maya passed around extra salad while they waited. Nobody seemed to mind. Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to which grocery store had the worst parking lot.

After dessert, one guest washed plates despite Maya’s protests. Daniel packed leftovers into old takeout containers. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya leaned against the counter, looking at the crumbs and empty bottles. “That went well.”

Daniel lifted the burned towel from where he had hidden it behind the toaster.

“We’ll need a new one,” he said.

She laughed, and together they began cleaning.


By six o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and the lemon candle Maya had lit to cover the earlier smell of burned bread. She stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel knelt beside the dining table, tightening a loose leg with a screwdriver.

“Does it still wobble?” he asked.

Maya pressed one hand against the table. “Only if someone leans on it. So don’t invite anyone emotional.”

They were expecting four friends, the largest group they could fit comfortably in their two-bedroom apartment outside Baltimore. Daniel had borrowed folding chairs from a neighbor. Maya had made baked ziti, salad, and a pan of brownies. Daniel was responsible for drinks and bread, though one loaf had already been sacrificed to the broiler.

At six thirty, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bag of ice nobody had requested but everyone appreciated. Daniel took coats and stacked them on the bed. Maya found a jar for the flowers, then remembered it held wooden spoons and transferred them to a mixing bowl.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. One friend described a difficult manager; another announced she had finally scheduled her driving test. Daniel refilled water glasses and brought out the replacement loaf. Maya served the ziti, scraping the crisp corners for herself.

Halfway through the meal, the table gave a small, alarming tilt. Daniel caught the salad bowl before it slid.

“I thought you fixed that,” Maya said.

“I improved it,” he replied, folding a napkin under the short leg.

Afterward, their friends helped clear plates. Someone put on music from a phone. They ate brownies in the living room, balancing dessert plates on their knees, while rain tapped against the windows.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel washed dishes while Maya packed leftovers into mismatched containers. They were tired, and the floor was dotted with crumbs.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink, the empty wine bottles, and the flowers leaning from their borrowed jar.

“It did,” she agreed, handing him another plate.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the time on the microwave. Across the kitchen, Daniel cut romaine lettuce into uneven strips.

“Those pieces are enormous,” Maya said.

“They’ll shrink when people chew them,” he replied.

She laughed and handed him a larger bowl. They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the neighbors. Daniel had already moved the coffee table against the wall and unfolded a card table beside their two-person dining table. The mismatched setup bothered Maya, but Daniel covered both tables with the same blue tablecloth, which made it look almost intentional.

At six, Maya tasted the sauce and frowned. Daniel tasted it too, added salt, then wiped a red spot from the counter. Together they assembled the lasagna: sauce, noodles, ricotta, mozzarella, repeat. While it baked, Maya changed her shirt, and Daniel took out the recycling and returned with a folding chair borrowed from the couple downstairs.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled up on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the tables while Daniel poured drinks and Maya brought out the salad.

The lasagna was still cold in the middle.

For a moment, Maya stared at it in silence. Then Daniel lifted the pan and put it back in the oven.

“Twenty more minutes,” he announced. “Emergency bread course.”

They passed around garlic bread and olives while their friends told a story about getting lost on the way over. By the time the lasagna was ready, no one seemed to mind the delay.

Later, after the last guests left, Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. The apartment was warm and cluttered, with crumbs under the table and half a bottle of wine left.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the leaning stack of dishes. “Ask me after cleanup.”

He turned on the faucet, and she handed him the first plate.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, while Daniel crouched in the living room, trying to slide an extension cord behind the bookcase.

“Why do we own three lamps and no working bulbs?” he called.

“Because you keep buying vintage lamps.”

“They have character.”

“They have electrical problems.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment in Columbus, Ohio. Tonight, four friends were coming for dinner, which was the largest gathering they had hosted since moving in.

Daniel set the table with mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Maya tasted the sauce, added salt, then handed him a bag of salad greens.

“Can you wash these?”

He did, though half the leaves ended up in the sink. When the buzzer sounded, Maya was still changing her shirt, and Daniel had just discovered they were out of ice.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened a window when the kitchen grew too warm.

Dinner was baked pasta, salad, and garlic bread that Daniel nearly burned because he was explaining a story and forgot the timer. Maya scraped off the darkest edges, and everyone ate it anyway. Conversation moved from a coworker’s promotion to rising rent, then to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer.

After dessert, they lingered around the table. Daniel made coffee while Maya divided the remaining cake into small pieces. By eleven, the guests had left, taking their coats and promising to host next time.

The apartment was suddenly quiet. Maya stacked plates beside the sink. Daniel collected glasses from the windowsill and coffee table.

“That went well,” he said.

“You almost set the bread on fire.”

“But I didn’t.”

She smiled and handed him a dish towel. They washed and dried in companionable silence, leaving the last pan to soak until morning.


By five-thirty, Maya had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and stacked it on top of the refrigerator, where Daniel said they would forget it for another week.

“We’ll remember it’s there,” she said, wiping a ring of coffee from the counter.

“We never remember anything above eye level.”

Daniel stood at the stove, stirring onions into a pot of tomato sauce. They had invited four friends for dinner, though their apartment’s table comfortably seated only four people total. Maya unfolded two metal chairs from the hall closet while Daniel tasted the sauce and added salt.

They had been living together for eighteen months, long enough to divide the work without discussing it much. Daniel cooked. Maya handled the table, music, and the last-minute cleaning that revealed how much dust gathered under the radiator.

At six-fifteen, she noticed they had no ice.

“I’ll go,” Daniel said, already reaching for his shoes.

“You’re wearing the sauce shirt.”

He looked down at the red spot on his sleeve. “It’s thematic.”

While he was gone, Maya sliced bread and arranged it in a bowl lined with a clean dish towel. The first guests arrived early, carrying wine and a grocery-store bouquet. Maya found a jar for the flowers just as Daniel returned with ice and a bag of lemons they had not needed.

Soon the apartment felt warmer and smaller. Coats covered the bed. Someone sat on the arm of the sofa. Daniel served pasta from the kitchen while Maya passed plates and reminded everyone that the metal chairs leaned slightly backward.

Dinner lasted almost two hours. They talked about rent increases, a friend’s new supervisor, and whether anyone still watched local news. One guest spilled wine, and both Maya and Daniel reached for the same towel, bumping shoulders.

After everyone left, they stood among empty glasses and crumpled napkins.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya picked up a fork from the floor. “Nobody fell out of a chair.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, leaving the sauce pot to soak until morning.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Ben carried two folding chairs up from the basement.

“Six people, six chairs,” he announced, setting them beside the table.

“One of those wobbles.”

“Then we’ll give it to Eric.”

Maya laughed and pointed at the cabinet. “Can you get down the serving bowl? The blue one.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which tasks each preferred. Maya planned menus and kept an eye on timing. Ben handled drinks, music, and anything stored on a high shelf. Tonight they were making roast chicken, potatoes, and a salad for four friends.

While Maya dried the chicken, Ben crossed out items on the grocery receipt. “We forgot sparkling water.”

“There’s still time.”

He pulled on his jacket, then paused. “Anything else?”

“Ice. And maybe another lemon.”

When he returned, Maya was wiping olive oil from the floor with her sock. The oven had begun to smoke because butter had spilled onto the bottom. Ben opened a window, and together they waved dish towels beneath the alarm until it stopped chirping.

Their friends arrived at seven carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Ben poured drinks while Maya moved the potatoes into a warmer dish. For ten minutes everyone crowded into the kitchen, talking over one another, until Ben steered them toward the table.

Dinner was slightly late. The chicken skin was darker than Maya intended, but the meat was tender. Eric got the wobbly chair and folded a napkin under one leg without complaint. They talked about rent increases, a new manager at work, and whether anyone had watched the documentary everyone kept recommending.

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

Ben filled the sink with soapy water. Maya wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

“The alarm didn’t.”

“It added drama.”

She handed him a plate to wash. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, they worked side by side, already discussing what to do with the leftovers.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken was browning or burning.

“It’s browning,” Maya said without looking up.

“You can’t see it.”

“I can hear the panic in your voice.”

Daniel shut the oven door and checked the recipe on his phone. They had invited four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee. Their dining table only seated four, so Daniel had borrowed two folding chairs from the downstairs neighbor.

Maya stirred parsley into a bowl of roasted potatoes, then tasted one. “Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

While Daniel set the table, Maya moved a stack of mail and two library books from the chairs to their bedroom. They disagreed briefly about whether to light candles. Maya said the overhead light was too harsh; Daniel worried the candles would drip on the table. They compromised by putting one candle on a saucer.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery pie. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, everyone tried to help at once. Daniel carved the chicken while Maya warmed the potatoes again because they had gone cold. Someone dropped a fork, and someone else opened the wrong bottle of wine.

At dinner, the folding chairs wobbled but held. Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer. Maya noticed Daniel quietly giving himself the smallest piece of chicken and passed him another without interrupting the story.

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

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya leaned against the counter and ate the last bite of pie directly from the pan.

“Successful?” he asked.

She handed him a fork. “Ask me after we do the dishes.”

They stood together at the sink, washing and drying while the candle burned itself out.