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

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the beans in the colander and a pot filling.

"Chicken again?" he said, not unkindly.

"There's rice."

"There's always rice." He kissed the side of her head and went to change out of his work clothes. When he came back he was in sweatpants and the Bulls T-shirt with the hole in the shoulder, and he took over the beans without being asked, snapping the ends off and tossing them into the sink instead of the compost bin, which she noticed and didn't mention.

"How was the thing?" she asked.

"The meeting? Forty minutes for something that could've been two sentences in an email." He shook the colander. "Rebecca brought donuts, though."

"So you had donuts for lunch."

"I had donuts and then I had a salad, out of guilt."

She laughed and pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the meat into a pan with a little butter and the juice of the lemon. Marcus put the beans in the boiling water and set a timer on his phone, because he never trusted himself to remember.

They ate at the little table by the window, plates on their laps half the time anyway, watching the rain streak the glass. Marcus talked about his brother's plan to buy a boat. Dana said the boat was a terrible idea and Marcus agreed but said it wasn't his money.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the pan needed to soak. She let him win. It was Tuesday. There would be more pans.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana got home, and Marcus heard the door and called from the kitchen that they were out of soy sauce.

"We're not out," she said, dropping her bag on the chair. "It's behind the vinegar."

He moved a bottle and found it. "You put it in a weird spot."

"I put it where it goes."

She washed her hands at the sink while he sliced the last of the zucchini, the knife thudding against the plastic board they kept meaning to replace. The apartment smelled like garlic and hot sesame oil. Outside, someone was trying to parallel park and failing, brake lights flashing across the ceiling.

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

"Moved to Thursday." She reached past him for the tofu, already pressed and sitting in a dish under a plate weighted with a can of beans. "You did this?"

"This morning."

"Look at you."

They worked around each other without much talking. She cubed the tofu; he pushed the zucchini into the pan and it hissed. He added soy sauce and a spoonful of the chili crisp they were almost through, then more than a spoonful.

"Not too much," she said.

"It's fine."

"For you."

He put the jar back. She got two bowls down, the good ones, and forks, because neither of them felt like chopsticks. They ate on the couch with the TV off, plates on their knees, discussing whether the landlord would actually fix the bathroom fan and whether it mattered.

It was a little too spicy. She drank most of her water and then half of his.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and when the pan was done she leaned against the counter and told him about a coworker's dog, and he laughed in the wrong place, and she made him listen to the whole thing again.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in from the garage, her work bag still on her shoulder.

"I got the chicken thighs," Marcus said from the stove. "They were on sale, the bone-in ones."

"Bone-in takes longer."

"I know. That's why I started at five-thirty." He nudged a thigh with the tongs; the skin came away from the pan in a way that satisfied him. "You want green beans or that broccoli that's about to go?"

Dana set her bag on the chair by the door and looked in the crisper drawer. The broccoli had gone a little yellow at the tips of the florets. "Both. If we don't eat the broccoli tonight we're throwing it out Thursday."

"Fine."

She washed it in the colander while he moved the chicken to a plate to rest. There was a pause where they were both reaching for the cutting board, and she stepped back and let him have it.

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

"Moved to Friday. Which is worse, honestly. Now I have to think about it for three more days." She trimmed the broccoli stems, dropped them in the pan with a little water and a lid on it. The steam smelled green and slightly sulfurous.

They ate at the table because Dana had asked, a few weeks ago, if they could stop eating on the couch, and Marcus had said sure, and it had mostly stuck. The chicken was good. The rice was a little wet.

"You put too much water in."

"I put the amount it says."

"The lines on the pot are for the little cup."

"I used the little cup."

She let it go. Outside the kitchen window, someone's dog was barking at the recycling bins. Marcus got up for the hot sauce without being asked, and set it down between them.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Devin came through the door, shaking rain off his jacket.

"You're early," Priya said. She was standing at the stove in his old college hoodie, pushing chicken thighs around a skillet with a wooden spoon.

"Ramirez canceled the four o'clock." He hung the jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, which she noticed and decided not to mention. "That smells like the peanut thing."

"It's the peanut thing. We had half a jar left and it was going to go weird."

He washed his hands at the sink, then leaned over her shoulder to look. "Is there broccoli?"

"In the fridge. I didn't want to cut it."

"I'll cut it." He found the head of broccoli in the crisper, a little limp at the stem, and trimmed off the bad part with the paring knife because the good knife was in the drying rack. Priya moved sideways to give him counter space. They'd lived in the apartment fourteen months and had worked out the choreography of the four-foot galley without ever discussing it.

"Steam or in the pan?"

"Pan. Less dishes."

He scraped the florets in and they hissed. Priya tasted the sauce off the spoon, made a face, added soy sauce and a squeeze of lime that had been rolling around in the door of the fridge since the weekend.

They ate on the couch, bowls on their knees, because the table had her laptop and a stack of mail on it. The rice was slightly overdone. Neither of them said so.

"Your mom called me," Devin said.

"On your phone?"

"She wanted to know if we're coming in July."

Priya chewed. "What did you say?"

"I said I'd ask you."

"Good answer." She reached over with her fork and took a piece of his chicken. He let her.


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

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

"Again?" Miles said, but he was already unlacing his boots, and she knew that was a yes. He came into the kitchen and kissed the side of her head, then reached past her for the beer he'd left in the door.

"You can make something else."

"I don't want to make something else. I want you to make chicken and rice."

She put him on green beans. He snapped the ends off badly, leaving too much stem, and she didn't say anything about it, mostly. He got out the good pan without being asked, which counted for something.

"Kayla texted," he said. "They want to do Saturday instead of Friday."

"I don't care which."

"I told her Friday's better."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"I didn't ask. I was informing you."

The rice was the boxed kind with the seasoning packet, and Dana dumped half the packet in and saved the rest, the way her mother did. She shredded the chicken with two forks while Miles squeezed lemon over the beans and put in more butter than she would have.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had mail on it, and had had mail on it for eleven days. The TV was on something neither of them was watching. Miles put his feet up on the ottoman, then moved them when she gave him a look.

"This is good," he said, and it was — plain and hot and salty.

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


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dani came in from the garage, work bag still slung across her chest. "Did you already start?"

"I put rice on," Marcus said. "That's the extent of it."

She dropped her bag on the chair that was supposed to be for sitting and opened the fridge. The chicken thighs she'd bought Sunday were still sealed, one day from the sell-by date. "These need to go tonight."

"Fine by me. There's that jar of green curry paste."

"Do we have coconut milk?"

He crouched to check the low cabinet where cans went to disappear. "One. It's the light kind, sorry."

"It's fine." She was already trimming the thighs on the cutting board, tossing fat into the compost bin that needed emptying. Marcus took over the vegetable half — half an onion from a container in the fridge, a red pepper going soft at one end, a handful of green beans he snapped in thirds because he didn't feel like finding the knife.

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

"Moved to Thursday. Which means Thursday is now insane." She scraped the chicken into the pan he'd heated and stepped back from the spitting. "Can you get the fish sauce? It's behind the vinegar."

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, a choreography of twelve years of apartments. He knocked the wooden spoon off the counter and she caught it against her hip.

They ate on the couch because the table had mail on it. The curry was too thin but hot, and Dani spooned it over rice and blew on it impatiently anyway.

"It's good," Marcus said.

"It's okay." She reached over with her fork and stole a green bean off his plate, even though she had her own. "We should get lemongrass sometime."

"Add it to the list."

Neither of them added it to the list.


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

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

"Again?" Marcus said, but he was already toeing off his shoes. "Fine. Yes. I'm too tired to have an opinion."

She measured rice into the pot while he changed out of his work shirt, and when he came back in a T-shirt with a paint stain on the shoulder, he took over the green beans without being asked. He snapped the ends off one at a time, dropping them into the compost bin they still felt smug about having.

"There's like four beans in here," he said.

"There's enough."

"There's four."

"Then eat the rice."

He shredded the chicken with two forks while she stirred butter into the rice and grated the parmesan down to a nub she then ate. The green beans went into a pan with olive oil and too much garlic, which was how they both liked them. The kitchen filled with the smell.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had bills on it and neither of them wanted to move the bills. Marcus put on the cooking competition show they were four seasons behind on. Dana's plate was mostly rice.

"My mom called," she said. "She wants to know about Thanksgiving."

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd ask you."

"You're asking me now?"

"I'm asking you now."

He chewed. "Do we have to decide tonight?"

"No."

"Then let's not."

She stole a green bean off his plate. He let her. Later he washed and she dried, and the whole thing took eleven minutes.


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

"Chicken again," she called out when she heard the door.

"I don't care," Marcus said, toeing off his shoes. "I ate a granola bar at two and that was it."

He came into the kitchen and reached past her for a beer, and she leaned back against him for a second before she started pulling things out. He set the beer down without opening it and washed his hands, then took over the green beans, snapping the ends off into the compost bin they were both still learning to remember existed.

"There's rice," he said. "The leftover rice."

"From Thai?"

"It's fine. It's like three days."

She smelled it and made a face but dumped it in a pan with a little water anyway, covering it to steam. He put the beans in the skillet with too much olive oil, which he always did, and she didn't say anything about it, which she considered generous.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a stack of mail on it neither of them had sorted through. The TV was on with the sound low, some show they'd already seen. The rice was fine. The beans were better than fine.

"Your mom called me," Marcus said.

"Why you?"

"She said you don't pick up."

Dana chewed. "I'll call her tomorrow."

He nodded and reached over to take a piece of chicken off her plate, since she'd stopped eating it and started picking at the beans instead. She let him. Outside somebody's car alarm went off and then stopped.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the thing that required the least of her: pasta, jarred sauce, whatever vegetable hadn't gone soft in the crisper drawer. She filled the big pot and set it on the back burner because the front one clicked without lighting half the time.

Marcus came in at six-twenty, still in his work fleece, and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. "It's freezing," he said.

"You always say that."

"It's always freezing." He looked into the pot. "Is that all the water?"

"It's enough."

"It's not enough. It'll boil over."

She stepped back and let him carry it to the sink and pour some off, which he did with a small performance of patience. Then he found the zucchini she'd left on the counter and started slicing it into coins, thin, the way he liked, while she opened the jar with the towel trick because her hands were bad at jars.

"There's a heel of parmesan somewhere," he said.

"In the door. Behind the mustards."

They ate at the table because she'd insisted on that early on, though the table held a stack of mail and a phone charger and one candle they never lit. Marcus put too much pepper on his and drank half a glass of water in one go. Dana told him about the woman at work who microwaved fish, again, and he made the appropriate sound of disgust.

"I forgot to call my mother back," he said.

"Call her tomorrow."

"She'll bring it up for a month."

"So call her after this."

He nodded, twirling. Outside, someone's car alarm went briefly off and quit. Dana got up for the water pitcher, and passing behind his chair she touched the back of his neck, cold from the walk, and he leaned into her hand without stopping eating.


The rain had started around five, and by the time Danielle got home her jacket smelled like wet asphalt. Marcus was already in the kitchen, standing over the cutting board with a bag of carrots he'd bought on Sunday and forgotten until now.

"There's no rice," he said.

"There's the couscous."

"The couscous from your mom?"

"It's fine. It's dry goods, it doesn't expire." She dropped her bag by the couch, which he'd asked her twice not to do, and came over to look at the carrots. He'd cut them into coins, thick ones, the way she didn't like because they stayed hard in the middle.

"Want me to do those smaller?"

"I'll eat them."

"You'll complain."

"I'll eat them and complain," she said, and took the sausage out of the fridge. Chicken sausage, the apple kind, four left in the package from a five-pack. Marcus had eaten one cold at midnight on Tuesday and admitted it under mild questioning.

They worked around each other in the narrow galley, the way they'd learned to over two and a half years — him at the stove, her at the sink filling the kettle for the couscous, both of them turning sideways when the other needed the drawer. He put the sausage in the pan and it hissed. She measured couscous into a bowl with the chipped rim and poured boiling water over it, covered it with a plate.

"How was the thing with Ravi?"

"He wants to push the deadline again."

"Of course he does."

They ate on the couch because the table had mail on it. The carrots were hard in the middle. Danielle said so, and Marcus said he'd noted her feedback, and she put her cold feet under his thigh, and they watched most of an episode of something before she fell asleep sitting up, and he let her.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to pick. She stood in front of the open fridge with her coat still on, evaluating: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp, most of a box of rice.

"Chicken and rice," she called out when she heard Marcus's key in the door.

"Again?"

"You want to go to the store?"

"No." He shrugged off his backpack by the shoe rack. "Chicken and rice is fine. I'll do the beans."

She measured rice into the pot with a coffee mug because they'd lost the actual measuring cup sometime during the move, then ran water over it until it went cloudy and poured that off. Marcus washed the beans in the colander and started snapping the ends, dropping them into a bowl. He ate two raw.

"Those are for cooking."

"Quality control."

The kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate. She said "behind you" and he leaned into the counter; he said "sink" and she stepped aside with the mug still in her hand. He put butter and a splash of water in a pan with the beans and a lid on top and let them steam.

"How was the thing?" she asked. "The meeting."

"Moved to Thursday."

"Of course it did."

She pulled the chicken apart with her fingers over the cutting board, tossing the skin and the sad wing into the trash. The rice took eighteen minutes and they filled it standing up, him scrolling something on his phone and reading her half a headline, her wiping the counter and finding a dried noodle stuck to it from days ago.

They ate on the couch with plates on their knees and an episode of something they'd both seen. Marcus salted his beans. Dana said the chicken was drier than Sunday, and he agreed, and they finished it anyway.


Dana got home first, which meant she chose the meal. She surveyed the fridge: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans starting to go limp, a wedge of parmesan. Rice, then. She filled the pot before taking off her shoes.

Eli came in twenty minutes later, still in his work fleece, and set a paper bag on the counter.

"You bought bread?"

"It was on the discount rack. Day-old." He pulled out a baguette and knocked it against the counter. It sounded like wood. "We can toast it."

"We can put it in the food processor and pretend we meant to make breadcrumbs."

He took over the green beans while she shredded the chicken with two forks. He was slow with the paring knife, snapping the ends off one at a time when she would have lined them up and cut them in a single pass, but she'd learned not to say so, mostly. The kitchen was too small for both of them; they kept doing the shuffle at the sink, one turning sideways while the other reached past.

"Do you want garlic in these?"

"Sure. Not a lot."

He put in four cloves. She saw and said nothing.

They ate at the coffee table because the actual table had become a place where mail lived. The rice was slightly underdone in the center. Eli said it was fine and had seconds. Dana picked the crustiest piece of toast and used it to push beans around.

"Karen's retiring in March," he said.

"She's been saying that for two years."

"She put in the paperwork. There's a card going around."

"Sign it from both of us."

Afterward he washed and she dried, because he flooded the counter and she couldn't stand it. The leftovers went into the last clean container. Nine forty-five, and the lights were off in the kitchen.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danielle came in from the garage, still holding her badge lanyard, and Marcus called out from the kitchen that they were out of soy sauce.

"We're not out," she said. "It's behind the vinegar."

He moved the vinegar. There it was, a bottle with maybe an inch left, the cap crusted brown. He held it up so she could see him being wrong about it, and she dropped her bag on the chair that had become the bag chair sometime last spring.

Dinner was going to be the chicken thighs that needed cooking tonight or never, plus the broccoli, plus rice. Marcus had already gotten the pan hot. Danielle washed her hands and started breaking the broccoli into pieces with her fingers instead of the knife, which he had opinions about but had stopped voicing around month four.

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

"Moved to Thursday." She ran water over the florets. "Which means I have to actually finish the deck."

The chicken hit the pan loud enough that they both stopped talking. Marcus turned the fan on, which barely helped; the smoke detector in the hallway was a known problem, and he kept an eye on it while he moved the thighs around with tongs.

She microwaved the broccoli in a covered bowl with a splash of water, which he considered a sad way to treat a vegetable, and they split the last of the soy sauce between the two plates. They ate at the table, not the couch, because Danielle had said last week she wanted to be the kind of people who ate at the table.

"This is fine," she said, meaning it.

"It's fine," he agreed.

Afterward he washed, she dried, and they got about halfway through an episode of something before she fell asleep sitting up.


The rain had started around five, so Dana came in with damp hair and a bag of groceries she hadn't planned on buying. She set it on the counter next to the mail.

"I got the chicken thighs instead," she said. "The breasts were almost nine dollars."

Marcus was already at the stove, sleeves pushed up, poking at a pan of onions that had been going too long on medium. "Thighs are better anyway." He moved them off the heat. "How much rice do you want?"

"However much. Half a cup?"

"That's not enough for two people."

"Then a cup." She took off her wet socks and left them by the radiator, which she knew he hated, and he looked at them and said nothing.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. She trimmed the chicken while he rinsed rice in a mesh strainer, then reached past her for the salt. There was a brief negotiation about the oven — he wanted to roast, she wanted to pan-fry so it'd be faster, and she won because she was the one holding the knife.

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

"Are they slimy?"

"Some of them."

"Pick out the good ones."

Dinner took twenty-five minutes. They ate on the couch because the table had a jigsaw puzzle on it, a thousand pieces of a lighthouse, about forty percent finished and stalled for three weeks. The chicken skin was crisp on one side and pale on the other. Marcus ate his green beans first, which she found funny and had told him so before.

"This is good," she said. "The onions."

"They almost burned."

"But they didn't."

He put on the second half of an episode they'd fallen asleep during on Sunday. Halfway through she got up for hot sauce and brought him a glass of water without being asked, and he took it and said thanks and didn't look away from the screen.


Nadia got home first, so she started the rice. The bag said fifteen minutes but she'd learned it needed twenty in their apartment, something about the burner or the altitude or the pot itself, which had a warped bottom that rocked slightly when she stirred.

Dev came in at six-forty with a canvas bag of groceries and his laptop under his arm. "They were out of the cilantro," he said. "The good kind. There was the sad kind, in the plastic sleeve."

"Did you get it?"

"I got it. I'm just telling you it's sad."

He set the bag on the counter, which was the only real counter, so she moved the cutting board to the top of the dryer. That was where the vegetables happened. She cut two zucchini into coins while he cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with the back of a fork, because the whisk was in the dishwasher, dirty, along with almost everything else.

"Are we running that tonight?"

"We have to," she said. "There's no forks."

They made the same thing they made on Wednesdays: rice, eggs scrambled with soy sauce and scallions, the zucchini browned hard in the cast iron with too much salt. Dev tasted it off the spatula and added more salt anyway.

They ate on the couch with plates on their knees, the TV on but muted, subtitles scrolling. Nadia picked the sad cilantro out of her rice and put it on the edge of the plate. Dev noticed and said nothing, then ate it off her plate when she got up for water.

"That's disgusting," she said.

"It's cilantro."

"It's my cilantro."

He started the dishwasher while she wiped the counter. It was seven-twenty. The whole thing had taken forty minutes, and neither of them thought about it again.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a package of ground turkey, a wilting bunch of scallions, two eggs, a container of rice from Sunday.

"Fried rice?" she called when she heard the door.

"Works." Marcus dropped his keys in the bowl by the entryway and came into the kitchen, loosening his tie with one hand. "Did we ever get soy sauce?"

"I thought you were going to."

"I thought you were." He opened the cabinet anyway and found a bottle behind the vinegar, nearly empty but not quite. "Never mind."

She browned the turkey while he chopped the scallions, standing closer to her than the counter required. The rice had gone hard in the fridge, so he broke it apart with his fingers before adding it to the pan, and she told him to stop eating the raw scallion tops.

"They're good."

"They're for the food."

The kitchen filled with steam and the smell of sesame oil. Marcus set the table, which meant two plates, two forks, and the paper towel roll in the middle. Dana scraped the pan out onto the plates unevenly, giving him more, then swapped them because she'd already picked out most of the turkey from his.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, someone was having trouble parallel parking.

"My mother called," Dana said. "She wants to know if we're coming at Christmas."

"Are we?"

"I said I'd ask you."

"Then ask me later, when I've eaten more." He reached over with his fork and took a bite off her plate, testing whether she'd object. She didn't.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they left the pan to soak because neither of them wanted to deal with it. The dishwasher hummed. It was 7:40 on a Tuesday, and there was nothing else that had to happen.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, doing inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, a lemon. There was rice in the cupboard. That was dinner.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the rice measured and the water heating.

"You're wet," she said.

"It started up again on Bergen." He hung the jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, which she noticed and let go. "What are we doing?"

"Chicken and rice. Beans."

"I can do the beans."

He washed them in the colander while she pulled meat off the carcass with her fingers, dropping the bones onto a paper towel. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate — he stepped back, she stepped left, neither of them commenting on it anymore.

"Do we have that garlic paste?" he asked.

"Door of the fridge. Behind the mustards."

He found it, squeezed a line into the pan with the beans, and turned the heat up too high. She reached over and turned it down.

"They'll steam if you put a lid on," she said.

"I know."

"You didn't have a lid on."

"I was getting to it."

The rice took eighteen minutes. They ate at the small table with the mail pushed to one side, and Marcus asked about the meeting she'd been dreading, and she said it was fine, actually, shorter than expected, and then she told him about the woman on the train who'd been reading a book about mushrooms out loud.

He rinsed the plates. She wiped the counter and put the lemon back, unused.

"That was good," he said.

"It was okay."

"It was good," he said again, and left it there.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Devon came in from the garage, jacket still on, holding the plastic grocery bag against his chest like something fragile.

"They didn't have the cilantro," he said. "Or, they had it, but it looked like a crime scene."

Mira was at the stove, pushing chicken thighs around a pan with a wooden spoon. "Parsley?"

"I got green onions."

"That works." She reached over and turned the burner down. The exhaust fan rattled the way it always did, a loose screw somewhere neither of them had located.

Devon washed the green onions and started slicing them thin, the way she'd shown him last spring, holding the knife tip down and rocking. He was slower than her but neater. Behind him, Mira opened the fridge and stood in its light for a while.

"There's half a cucumber," she said. "From Tuesday."

"Is it slimy?"

"It's fine. It's a little sad." She brought it out anyway and cut it into coins, sprinkling them with rice vinegar and salt in a cereal bowl, because the good small bowls were still in the dishwasher and neither of them had run it.

They ate at the coffee table, plates on their knees, because the kitchen table had Devon's laptop and a stack of unopened mail on it. The TV was on but muted, a basketball game neither of them was following.

"This is good," Devon said. "The soy sauce thing."

"It's the honey. It's mostly honey."

He nodded, chewing. "We should get honey."

"We have honey."

"More honey."

Mira put her fork down and pressed her thumb into the arch of her foot, which had been aching since noon. Devon reached over without looking and took the cucumber bowl, finishing the last two slices and the vinegar at the bottom, drinking it straight from the rim.

"Gross," she said, and got up to start the dishwasher.


Marcus got home first, which meant he decided. He stood in front of the open refrigerator with his tie loosened, taking inventory: half a bag of spinach going soft at the edges, four eggs, a block of cheddar, the end of a loaf of sourdough.

"Frittata?" he called toward the bedroom, where Priya was changing out of her work clothes.

"Is there bacon?"

"There was bacon on Sunday."

"Then there's no bacon." She came out in sweatpants and one of his old college T-shirts, hair pulled up with a claw clip. "Frittata's fine. I'll do the bread."

He cracked the eggs into a bowl while she sawed the sourdough into thick, uneven slices and laid them on a sheet pan. The spinach hissed when it hit the butter. He salted it, tasted, salted again.

"You're going to make it too salty."

"I'm going to make it correctly."

She reached past him for the olive oil, brushed it over the bread, and slid the pan into the oven under the broiler. "Watch that. It goes fast."

"I know it goes fast."

"You said that last time and then we ate charcoal."

He grated the cheddar while she rinsed the cutting board. The kitchen was small enough that they had a choreography for it, learned over two years — she stepped left when he opened the drawer, he pivoted when she needed the sink. Neither of them noticed doing it anymore.

The frittata went into the oven; the toast came out just barely dark. They ate at the coffee table with the TV on mute, plates on their knees, because the dining table had become a place where mail lived.

"It's a little salty," Priya said.

"It's perfect."

She took another bite. "It's a little salty *and* it's good."

He let that stand. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and then stopped.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open fridge with her coat still on, counting: half a package of ground turkey, a bag of spinach going soft at the edges, two eggs, a lemon that had gone slightly hard.

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

"Is there sauce?" Ben asked, unwinding his scarf.

"There's a jar of the tomato basil. And the parmesan, probably."

"Pasta, then." He came into the kitchen, kissed the side of her head, and went to fill the pot before she asked him to. He always overfilled it and she always let it go.

She browned the turkey while he sat on the counter and told her about a coworker who had ordered three hundred custom mugs with a typo on them. She laughed in the right places and asked him to hand her the oregano, and he had to read four jars before he found it, because he'd been the one to put them away last time and had ignored any system.

"The spinach is questionable," she said, dumping it in anyway. It collapsed into almost nothing.

"That's why we put it in things."

They ate on the couch, which they had agreed in October they would stop doing. The pasta was fine — a little bland, better with a lot of cheese. Ben got up twice, once for water and once for the hot sauce he put on everything, which Dana found faintly insulting to her cooking and had decided years ago not to mention.

"There's enough for lunch tomorrow," she said.

"You take it. I've got the thing at noon."

Halfway through an episode she paused it and carried both plates to the sink, and he came in a minute later and started washing without either of them saying anything about whose turn it was.


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

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

"We had chicken and rice Monday," Marcus said. He set his bag down and came into the kitchen, still in his work fleece. He looked past her shoulder into the fridge like there might be something she'd missed.

"Then you decide."

"Chicken and rice is fine."

She laughed and handed him the beans. He rinsed them at the sink, snapping the ends off with his thumbnail and dropping them into the compost bin, which needed emptying and had for two days. Dana started the rice, measuring by eye, then pulled the chicken apart with her fingers over a plate.

"You want the skin?"

"You always ask that."

"You always say no."

"No," he said.

They worked around each other in the narrow space. He asked about her afternoon; she said her one-thirty had rescheduled again, third time. He said that was the guy with the boat. She said yes, the boat guy. He sautéed the beans in butter with too much garlic, which was how she liked them, and squeezed the lemon over the pan, and some of it hissed on the burner and smelled sharp and good.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had mail on it. The TV was on with the sound low, a show they'd both seen. Marcus put his feet up.

"This is better than Monday," Dana said.

"Same food."

"Better beans."

He took her plate when she was done, and she got up to find the remote, and neither of them mentioned the mail.


The rice cooker clicked to warm just as Deven got home, which meant Priya had started it before her last meeting. He found her at the stove, phone propped against the backsplash, scrolling a recipe she clearly wasn't following.

"There's no cumin," she said without turning around.

"There was cumin."

"There was a jar with maybe eight seeds in it." She held it up as evidence, then set it down. "I used garam masala. It'll be fine."

He washed his hands and looked in the pan: onions going translucent, a can of chickpeas draining in the sink, a bag of spinach still unopened on the counter. He picked up the spinach.

"All of it?"

"All of it. It cooks down to nothing."

He dumped it in anyway, in handfuls, pressing it with the back of a wooden spoon while she cracked open the chickpeas and rinsed them. The kitchen was too narrow for both of them, so they moved in a practiced way — he stepped back when she turned, she waited when he reached past her for the salt.

"Did you call the landlord about the disposal?"

"I emailed. He hasn't answered." She tasted from the spoon, made a face, added more salt. "Try that."

He tried it. "More lemon."

"There's half a lemon."

"Use the half."

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had a pile of unfolded laundry on it that neither of them mentioned. Rice, chickpeas, a puddle of yogurt Priya had spooned onto the side of her bowl. The TV played an episode of something they'd both seen, mostly for the noise.

"This is actually good," Deven said.

"It's the garam masala."

"Don't gloat."

She gloated a little anyway, chewing. Afterward he washed and she dried, because the disposal was broken and he was better at picking rice out of the drain without complaining. It took nine minutes. Then they folded the laundry.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm around six-fifteen, which meant Dana had about ten minutes before Marcus got home. She'd already washed the broccoli and set it in the colander, dripping into the sink.

He came in stamping snow off his boots. "It's doing that thing where it's snowing but also raining."

"Sleet."

"It's not sleet, it's worse." He hung his coat on the hook, then moved it to the other hook because the first one was already holding her tote bag and a canvas grocery bag. "What are we doing?"

"I was thinking that pork thing. With the soy sauce."

He opened the fridge and stood in front of it a while. "We have two pork chops or one pork chop and something that used to be a pork chop."

"Use both. I'll eat the sad one."

"You always say that and then I eat the sad one."

She let that go and started cutting the broccoli into pieces that were roughly, but not actually, the same size. Marcus got out the cast iron and turned the burner to medium-high, then higher, then back, and salted the chops on both sides while the pan heated. The kitchen was small enough that they had a whole choreography for it: she stepped left, he reached past her for the oil, she moved to the stove side while he went to the sink.

"Do we have lemon?"

"No."

"Fine." He put the chops in and they hissed and immediately set off the smoke detector, which happened often enough that Dana just walked over and fanned a dish towel at it without comment.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had bills on it. The broccoli was slightly undercooked and the rice was fine. Marcus ended up with the sad chop.

"It's not bad," he said.

"It's not," she agreed, and got up to get the hot sauce.


The rice was already going when Dana got home, which meant Marcus had left work early again.

"Don't say anything," he said, before she'd even set down her bag. "It was slow. Nobody noticed."

"I wasn't going to say anything." She looked in the pot. "Is that all the rice we have?"

"There's more in the pantry, but that's the good stuff. The jasmine."

"Then we're fine." She toed off her shoes by the radiator, where they weren't supposed to go, and went to the fridge. Half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans past its prime but not dangerous, three eggs, a lime that had gone hard as a golf ball.

"Beans?" she said.

"Beans."

She snapped the ends off at the counter while he pulled the chicken apart with his fingers, dropping the skin into the trash and the good meat onto a plate. The kitchen was too small for both of them at once, so they did the thing they'd worked out over two years — she stayed at the sink end, he stayed at the stove, and whoever needed to pass through said "behind you" even though nobody ever ran into anybody.

"Soy sauce or butter," he said.

"Butter. But garlic in it."

"There's one clove."

"One clove is a clove."

They ate on the couch because the table had mail on it, which was a decision they had both agreed to stop making and had not stopped making. The beans were better than the beans deserved to be. Marcus put his feet on the coffee table and Dana put her plate on his shins.

"This is good," she said. "Genuinely."

"It's chicken and rice."

"I know what it is."

He turned the TV on, volume low, and neither of them really watched it. Outside a car alarm went off and stopped. Dana reached over with her fork and took one of his green beans, and he let her.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danielle came in from the garage, still carrying the mail. She set it on the counter, and Marcus reached past her for the soy sauce.

"Anything?" she asked.

"Electric bill. Something from the dentist." He held up a coupon flyer. "And this, which is trash."

She tossed the flyer into the recycling and pulled the tofu out of the fridge, pressing the block between two plates while Marcus chopped broccoli with the dull knife because the sharp one was in the dishwasher and neither of them wanted to unload it yet.

"There's still that half bag of frozen edamame," he said.

"From when?"

"Not that long."

She looked in the freezer, considered, and dumped it in the colander to thaw under the tap. The pan got too hot before the oil went in and started smoking; Marcus cranked the vent hood, which roared and made them talk louder.

"Did you call about the car?" she asked.

"They can't take it till Thursday."

"Thursday you have that thing."

"I know. I'll drop it off before and Uber."

"I can pick you up."

"That's forty minutes for you."

"It's fine. I'd rather."

He nodded and pushed the broccoli around. Danielle sliced the tofu into slabs and slid them in, and he stepped aside to let her, then leaned back in and added too much garlic powder, which she noticed and let go.

They ate at the coffee table with the TV on mute, bowls in their laps, because the actual table had a stack of Marcus's work papers on it and had for two weeks. The edamame was freezer-burned. They ate it anyway.

"It's good," she said.

"It's fine."

Afterward he rinsed and she loaded, and when the sharp knife came out clean she put it in the block instead of the drawer, where he would forget it, and then he'd complain, and she'd remind him.


Maya got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, cataloging: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of green beans going limp at the tips, a lemon. Rice in the cupboard, probably.

Devon came in twenty minutes later and found her already at the stove, sleeves pushed up, the rice cooker clicking.

"You're not going to believe the bus," he said.

"Try me."

"Driver missed the turn at Fremont. Just—missed it. Everybody had to walk back three blocks."

Maya laughed and handed him the lemon. "Zest this. Or juice it. Whichever's easier."

"Which do you want?"

"Juice, I guess."

He rolled it hard against the counter first the way his mother did, then cut it. Half the juice went on the beans and half went nowhere in particular, running down his wrist. He wiped it on the dish towel, which he knew she hated, and she saw him do it and didn't say anything, which he noticed.

They ate at the little table by the window because the coffee table was covered in Devon's tax documents, an ongoing situation. The chicken was dry but fine. The beans were good.

"Did you call the landlord?" Maya asked.

"I texted. He said next week for the disposal."

"He said next week last week."

"I know." Devon speared a green bean. "I'll call tomorrow. Actual phone call."

She nodded and pushed the rice around. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and stopped.

"This is good," he said. "The lemon thing."

"It's just lemon."

"Still."

After, he washed and she dried, because she was faster at putting things where they belonged. It took eleven minutes. Then they moved the tax documents into two neat piles and watched half an episode of something before Maya fell asleep sitting up, and Devon let her.


The rice was already on when Daniel got home, and Priya was standing at the counter with her phone propped against the sugar canister, scrolling a recipe she'd clearly abandoned.

"There's no cilantro," she said. "I forgot to write it down."

"We have parsley."

"Parsley isn't cilantro."

"It's green," he said, hanging his jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, which she noticed and let go.

They'd done this enough times to move around each other without talking about it. He took the cutting board and started on the onion, badly, in uneven chunks she would have criticized six months ago. She got the chicken thighs out of the fridge and peeled the plastic back, then held the package at arm's length.

"Smell this."

"No."

"It's fine, I think. Just smell it."

He leaned in, made a face, and shrugged. "It's fine. It's chicken."

The pan got too hot before the oil went in and the kitchen filled with a thin blue smoke, so Priya cracked the window over the sink and the January air came in cold across the counter. Daniel turned the burner down. He salted the chicken while it cooked, twice, because he could never remember whether he had.

They ate at the coffee table with the TV on mute, plates on their knees, because the actual table had a laundry basket on it that neither of them had moved since Sunday. The rice was slightly undercooked in the middle. Priya ate hers anyway, mixing everything together with her fork, and said it was good, and meant it mostly.

"I'll do the dishes," Daniel said.

"You did them yesterday."

"You cooked."

"You cooked."

They looked at the plates. Neither of them moved for a while, and then she stood up and took his, and he followed her into the kitchen to dry.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danielle got home, which meant Marcus had started dinner without her again. She dropped her bag by the shoe rack and found him at the stove, pushing frozen broccoli around a skillet with a wooden spoon.

"There's chicken thighs in the oven," he said. "Twenty more minutes, probably. I didn't preheat all the way because I was impatient."

"So thirty minutes."

"Probably thirty minutes."

She washed her hands and started opening cabinets, looking for the sesame oil, which had migrated to the shelf with the vinegars. Marcus had reorganized things in April and neither of them had fully adjusted.

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

"Rescheduled. Third time." Danielle uncapped the oil and shook a little into the broccoli, then added soy sauce straight from the bottle, tilting it fast so it came out in a splash. "Sorry. Too much?"

"It's fine. Grab the rice vinegar, it'll balance."

They traded places at the stove twice, an awkward shuffle in the narrow galley kitchen. He pulled the chicken out early to check it and the skin wasn't crisp, so he turned the broiler on and stood watching through the oven door with his arms crossed, the way he watched anything he didn't quite trust.

Danielle set two plates on the coffee table instead of the kitchen table, which was where the laundry was. She poured water into the same two glasses they always used, the tall ones from his mother.

They ate with the TV on, some baking competition they'd seen before. The chicken was better than it looked. Marcus scraped the crisped bits off the sheet pan and put them on her plate without asking, and she made a small noise of approval without looking away from the screen.

"I'll do dishes," she said.

"You did them yesterday."

"I'll do them," she said, "and you fold the laundry."

He considered it. "Deal."


Marisol got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a rotisserie chicken from Sunday, a bag of spinach going limp at the edges, three eggs, a wedge of parmesan.

"Pasta," she called out when she heard the door.

Danny came into the kitchen unwinding his scarf. "We had pasta Monday."

"We had pasta with jarred sauce Monday. This is different. This is chicken."

He looked over her shoulder into the fridge, considered it, and shrugged. "I'll do the water."

She pulled the chicken apart with her fingers while he filled the pot, and they negotiated the stove without talking about it—he took the back burner, she took the front, the way they'd sorted out months ago. The spinach hissed when it hit the oil.

"Salt the water," she said.

"I salted it."

"You said that last time and you hadn't."

"I salted it *this* time." He held up the box as evidence, then set it down. "There's a bill on the table, by the way. The dentist one."

"I saw it. I'll call them Thursday."

They ate at the counter because the table had a laundry basket on it that neither of them mentioned. Marisol grated more parmesan onto her bowl than she needed. Danny scrolled his phone with one thumb, then put it face-down.

"How was the thing with Peterson?"

"Moved to next week." He twirled his fork. "This is good. The lemon was smart."

"There wasn't lemon."

"Something bright, then."

"Vinegar. A splash."

He nodded like she'd told him something worth knowing. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and stopped. Marisol got up for water, filled two glasses without asking, and set one down by his elbow.

"I'll wash," he said. "You cooked."

"I know," she said, and let him.


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

"Chicken thing," she called when she heard Marcus's key.

"What chicken thing?"

"The one where we put it on rice."

He came into the kitchen unwinding his scarf. "That's not a thing, that's just chicken and rice."

"It's a thing now." She handed him the beans. "Trim these."

He ran water over them in the colander and started snapping off the ends with his thumbnail, which she'd told him a dozen times was slower than using a knife. He liked doing it that way. She measured rice into the pot without a measuring cup, using the same chipped mug she always used, and set it on the back burner.

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

"Postponed. Again." He dumped the beans into a pan with oil and let them sit. "He's going to postpone it until I stop caring, and then he's going to have it."

"That's a strategy."

"It's his only strategy."

She pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the pieces into a bowl, and picked out the bits of skin she liked to eat standing up. Marcus took one when she wasn't looking and she smacked his wrist without turning around.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had mail on it and neither of them wanted to move the mail. The beans were a little burnt on one side. Marcus said they were good anyway and had seconds to prove it.

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


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danny came in from the garage, still smelling faintly of the auto parts store where he'd spent nine hours explaining the difference between synthetic and conventional oil.

"I got the chicken thighs," Priya said, not looking up from the cutting board. "They were on sale, but only the bone-in."

"That's fine." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, edging her sideways to reach the soap. "Bone-in's better anyway."

"You say that, but you complain about the bones."

"I complain while enjoying myself. It's a whole thing I do."

She handed him the garlic. He hated peeling garlic and she knew it, but she also knew he'd do it if she just put it in his hand without comment. He smashed the cloves with the flat of the knife the way she'd shown him two years ago, back when they still lived in separate apartments and cooking together felt like an event.

"Do we have that soy sauce, or did we finish it?"

"There's some. Behind the vinegar."

They worked around each other in the narrow galley kitchen, a choreography they'd never discussed. She salted the chicken; he set the oven to 425 and then, at her look, changed it to 400. The broccoli went in a pan with too much oil, the way they both liked it.

While it cooked they stood in the living room with the TV on mute, scrolling their phones. Priya read him a text from her sister about a wedding in April. Danny said he'd have to check the schedule, which meant no.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had a laundry basket on it, and neither of them mentioned moving the basket. The chicken was slightly dry. The rice was good.

"Tomorrow we should do the table," she said.

"Yeah," he said, and reached for another thigh.


The rain had started around four, so Dana came home with damp hair and a plastic bag of groceries she'd grabbed on the walk from the bus stop. Marcus was already at the stove, prodding at an onion he'd chopped too coarsely.

"I got the wrong pasta," she said, setting the bag on the counter. "They didn't have penne. Just those little shells."

"Shells are fine." He took the box from her and read the cooking time. "Nine minutes. Water's not even close."

She hung her jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook by the door, which she knew he noticed and knew he wouldn't mention tonight. Then she opened the fridge and stood in its light, looking for the jar of sauce she was sure they still had.

"Behind the yogurt," Marcus said without turning.

It was behind the yogurt. She twisted the lid, felt it hold, ran hot water over the rim, and got it on the second try.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, a choreography they'd developed over two years without ever discussing it. He drained the shells into the colander in the sink. She grated parmesan directly over the pot because dirtying the small bowl seemed pointless.

"There's spinach that's going," he said. "Should we throw it in?"

"How going?"

He held up the bag. She squinted at it, shrugged, and he dumped it in, where it collapsed into almost nothing.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had his laptop and a stack of mail on it. The TV played an episode of something they'd both seen before. Dana put her feet in his lap between bites.

"This is good," she said.

"It's sauce from a jar."

"Still."

Afterward he washed and she dried, and the rain kept going, and neither of them said anything about it.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator for a while, letting the cold air hit her face, and then pulled out a package of chicken thighs and half a bag of green beans that had another day in them, maybe two.

Marcus came in at ten past six, dropped his bag by the door, and looked at the counter.

"Thighs again?"

"You said you liked them better than breasts."

"I do. I'm just noting a pattern." He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, bumping her hip with his to get closer to the faucet. "Rice?"

"There's leftover rice from Sunday."

"That's four days."

"Three. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday." She counted on her fingers, then frowned. "Okay, four. Make new rice."

He measured it out badly, the way he always did, eyeballing the water with his thumb against the side of the pot, and it always came out fine, which annoyed her slightly. She salted the chicken and let the pan get hot while she trimmed the beans, snapping the ends off and dropping them into a colander.

"Sarah's doing the thing on Saturday," Marcus said.

"The birthday thing."

"Do we want to go?"

Dana laid the thighs skin-side down. The pan spat at her and she stepped back. "I want to want to go."

"That's a no."

"That's a maybe."

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a pile of mail on it that neither of them had dealt with in eleven days. The beans were slightly underdone. Marcus put hot sauce on everything, which he did regardless of what was served, and Dana watched him do it with the same mild disapproval she'd had for three years.

"It's good," he said.

"The beans are crunchy."

"I like them crunchy."

"You don't."

"I don't," he agreed, and took another bite.


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

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the beans in a colander and a pot filling at the sink.

"Pasta?" he asked, hanging the jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook.

"If you want. I was thinking just chicken and beans."

"That's not dinner, that's a side dish and a memory." He nudged past her to the cabinet and pulled out the box of penne, shook it. Enough for two, barely. "We can do the garlic thing."

"You do the garlic thing. You always say I burn it."

"You do burn it."

"I like it dark."

"You like it *carbonized*." He got the cutting board down, the good knife, and started peeling cloves with his thumbnail while she pulled the chicken apart with her fingers, dropping the shreds onto a plate and eating the crispy bits off the skin as she went.

"Stop that," he said, not looking up.

"There's plenty."

The kitchen got loud with water boiling and the fan over the stove, so they stopped talking for a while. He tossed the beans into the skillet with the garlic and too much olive oil, the way his mother did it. She salted the pasta water without measuring and set two plates on the counter, then remembered they were down to one clean fork and pulled another out of the dishwasher, running it under the tap.

They ate at the coffee table with the TV on, some show they'd both seen. Dana squeezed the lemon over everything, including his plate, without asking.

"I would've said yes," he said.

"I know."


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danielle came in from the parking lot, still in her scrubs, smelling faintly of hand sanitizer. Marcus was at the stove with a wooden spoon, pushing chicken thighs around a skillet.

"You started without me," she said, dropping her bag by the shoe rack.

"You said you'd be home at six."

"I said six-*ish*." She leaned over the pan and inhaled. "Is that the soy sauce one?"

"The soy sauce one. We're out of ginger, though, so it's soy sauce and garlic and whatever's happening in that jar of chili crisp."

She opened the fridge and stood there with the door hanging wide, which he had asked her not to do maybe four hundred times, and pulled out a bag of green beans that had another day in them at most. "These?"

"Sure. There's room in the other pan."

She rinsed them in the colander and snapped the ends off over the trash, and he moved sideways to make space at the stove. The kitchen was too narrow for two people, which they had known when they signed the lease and had decided not to care about.

"Your mom called me," he said.

"Oh no."

"It was fine. She wanted to know if we were coming for Easter."

"What'd you say?"

"I said I'd ask you, which was a coward's answer, and she knew it."

Danielle laughed. The beans went into the pan and hissed.

They ate at the coffee table because the actual table had a laundry basket on it, watching an episode of something they'd both seen before. Marcus ate too fast, as always. Danielle picked the chicken apart with her fork and left the crispy skin for last.

"This is good," she said.

"It's just chicken."

"It's good chicken," she said, and took his empty plate when she got up.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came in from the balcony, hands cold, the last of the daylight gone behind the apartment building across the street. She'd been out there twelve minutes on the phone with her mother, which was a good call by their standards.

"She wants to know if we're coming at Thanksgiving," Dana said, shrugging out of her jacket.

Marcus had the skillet going, garlic already in the oil. "What'd you tell her?"

"That I'd ask you."

"So, no." He tipped the chicken thighs in, and the pan hissed and spat. He turned the burner down and reached past her for the tongs, and she stepped sideways without looking, the way people do after four years in a kitchen the size of a hallway.

"Not no. Undecided." She opened the fridge. "There's half a bag of that spinach."

"Is it slimy?"

She pressed the bag. "It's borderline."

"Then it's fine."

They ate on the couch because the table had bills on it and neither of them wanted to move the bills. Marcus put on the cooking competition show they were three seasons behind on, and Dana ate her rice first, the way she always did, saving the chicken, which annoyed him for no reason he could explain and which he had stopped mentioning.

"This is good," she said. "You used the lemon."

"I used the last of the lemon."

"I'll get lemons."

"You always say that."

"I'll put it in my phone." She didn't put it in her phone.

He took the plates. She stayed on the couch, feet tucked under her, and paused the show without being asked while he ran water over the skillet. From the sink he could hear her yawning, enormous and unselfconscious, and he thought about Thanksgiving, and decided to bring it up tomorrow.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana came through the door, shaking rain off her jacket. "Traffic on Grand was a nightmare," she said, hanging it on the hook that had been loose since March.

Marcus was at the counter with a knife and a head of broccoli. "I got the bag of frozen stuff too, in case you wanted more."

"Fresh is fine." She kicked off her shoes and came to look. "Are we doing the peanut sauce?"

"I was going to, but we're out of rice vinegar. I checked twice."

Dana opened the cabinet anyway, moved a jar of capers, and confirmed it. "Lime, then. There's one in the crisper that's still mostly a lime."

He handed her the cutting board space and started the pan. The tofu had been pressing under a plate since that morning, which had been her idea, and it browned better than usual. Dana whisked peanut butter with soy sauce and the lime, tasting it off her finger twice and adding hot water until it loosened.

"Too salty?"

He tried it. "It's good. Maybe more lime."

"That's all the lime there is."

"Then it's good."

They ate at the table because Dana had asked, a few weeks back, if they could stop eating on the couch every night. The TV stayed off. Marcus told her about a coworker who'd announced his resignation in a group chat, and she said that was insane, and he agreed it was insane. She mentioned that her sister had called about Thanksgiving, and neither of them decided anything about it.

Halfway through, Marcus got up and brought the sriracha without being asked, because she always wanted it eventually.

Afterward she washed and he dried, and the rice cooker got soaked in the sink overnight, which was fine, because tomorrow was his turn anyway.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Danny got home, and Priya heard him kick off his shoes by the door instead of setting them on the rack, which she decided not to mention.

"There's broccoli," she said. "I already cut it."

"Did you salt the water?"

"It's not pasta, Danny. It's broccoli."

He came into the kitchen still wearing his work badge on its lanyard, looped it off, and set it on the windowsill where it always ended up. The apartment smelled like the sesame oil she'd been heating in the wok, faintly burnt at the edges.

"Do we have any of that chili crisp left?"

"Half a jar. Behind the mustard."

He found it, pried the lid, and left it open on the counter for later. Then he took the broccoli off the cutting board with the flat of the knife and dumped it in, and the oil hissed and spat at his forearm and he swore mildly.

"Told you to turn it down."

"You didn't say anything."

"I thought it."

She scrambled four eggs in a bowl with a fork, adding a splash of soy sauce because her mother did it that way, and poured them in around the broccoli. Danny stirred. She got out two bowls, the good ceramic one and the chipped blue one, and gave him the chipped one because he never noticed.

They ate on the couch with the TV on, some show they'd both seen before, volume low. Rice, eggs, broccoli, chili crisp spooned over the top. Danny put his feet on the coffee table and she pushed them off without looking.

"This is good," he said, mouth full.

"It's eggs."

"Still good."

Afterward he washed the wok because she'd cooked, which was the arrangement, and she sat on the counter beside him, drinking water from his glass, telling him about a coworker he'd never met.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana got home, and Marcus heard her drop her keys in the bowl by the door.

"There's chicken thawed," he called from the kitchen. "I was going to do the lemon thing."

"The lemon thing is fine." She came in still wearing her work badge, peered into the skillet, and turned the heat down a notch without saying anything about it. Marcus let it go. He'd learned that particular battle wasn't worth fighting, and honestly the pan had been too hot.

"Do we have broccoli or did I imagine that?"

"Crisper drawer. Might be past its prime."

She pulled out the bag and inspected it, snapping a floret in half. "It's fine. Little yellow on the ends." She rinsed it in the colander and started cutting on the small board, the one with the crack running down the middle that they kept meaning to throw out.

Marcus squeezed half a lemon over the chicken, then the other half because it never seemed like enough. He tasted the sauce off the back of a spoon, added salt, tasted again.

"Try this."

Dana leaned over and took the spoon. "More pepper."

"You always say more pepper."

"Because you always need more pepper."

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a pile of mail and a half-assembled bookshelf shoved against it. The TV played an episode of a cooking competition they'd already seen. Dana ate the broccoli first, all of it, then the chicken. Marcus mixed everything together with rice, which she found mildly disgusting and had told him so at least twice.

"My mom called," she said. "She wants to know about Thanksgiving."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I'd ask you."

"Okay." He speared a piece of chicken. "Ask me tomorrow."

She nodded and reached for the remote to turn the volume up.


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

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

"Again?" Marcus said, but he was already unlacing his boots. "Fine. Yes. I don't care."

"You care a little."

"I care a little." He came into the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink, bumping her hip with his to get closer to the soap. "There's that jar of curry paste."

"From Andrea's thing?"

"It's been in there since March."

She found it behind the mustard, unopened, the label a little sticky. He measured rice into the pot without a measuring cup, the way he always did, two fistfuls and then a splash more, and she pulled the chicken apart with her fingers over the cutting board, dropping the skin into the trash and eating one strip of it anyway.

The green beans she snapped in half rather than trimming, standing at the counter, dropping them into a colander. Marcus turned on the radio and then turned it off.

"Was it Thursday you're seeing your brother?" she asked.

"Saturday. He wants to bring the dog."

"The dog is fine."

"The dog is not fine, but it's fine."

They ate at the kitchen table because the coffee table had a stack of unopened mail on it that neither of them wanted to move. The curry paste was too much; both of them drank a lot of water. Dana said it wasn't bad and Marcus said it was a little bad, and she agreed, and he took her plate when he got up, scraping both into the trash.


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

By the time Marcus came in, she had the beans in a colander and the oven preheating.

"You're reheating the chicken in the oven?" he said, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door.

"Microwave makes it rubbery."

"It's already rubbery." He kissed the side of her head anyway and went to wash his hands. "Did you eat lunch?"

"I had a granola bar at two."

"That's not lunch."

"It was a big granola bar."

He took over the beans without discussing it, which was their arrangement—she started things, he finished them—and she measured rice into the pot with the dented lid. The rice cooker had died in August and neither of them had replaced it, though Marcus mentioned it roughly once a week.

"Trim these or leave the ends?"

"Trim. I hate the little stems."

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, and twice he said "behind you," and once she moved her hip against him to get to the drawer with the tongs. He told her about the guy at work who kept microwaving fish. She told him her sister had called about Thanksgiving and she hadn't called back.

"You should call her back."

"I know."

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a stack of mail on it, and neither of them had dealt with the mail. The chicken was dry. The beans were good—he'd put garlic in, more than she would have.

"This is fine," she said.

"It's fine." He reached over with his fork and took a bean off her plate. "Tomorrow I'll make the soup."

"You always say that."

"Tomorrow I'll actually make it."

She let him have another bean.


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

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

"Pasta?" he asked, dropping his bag by the couch instead of in the closet, which she decided not to mention.

"Chicken and beans. There's couscous in the cabinet, the box from your mom."

"That's been in there since March."

"Couscous doesn't go bad."

He checked the date anyway, shrugged, and set the box on the counter. She handed him the lemon and the microplane without saying anything, and he started zesting over the beans, which was a thing they'd started doing after a recipe she'd found in April and now did every time, on everything.

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

"Rescheduled. Third time." He rinsed the zested lemon and cut it in half. "She's going to reschedule until I forget I asked."

"Then stop asking."

"I know."

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Marisol pulled the chicken apart with her fingers over a plate, dropping the skin into the trash and the good meat into a bowl. Dev poured boiling water over the couscous, covered it with a plate because they didn't have a lid the right size, and set a timer on his phone for five minutes.

They ate on the couch, plates on their knees, an episode of something they'd already seen playing quietly. The beans were slightly undercooked. Dev said so and kept eating them.

"There's enough chicken for tomorrow," Marisol said.

"I'll take it for lunch."

"Take the couscous too."

He said he would, and then he didn't, and she ate it Thursday.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the pasta because the zucchini in the crisper drawer had gone soft on one end and it was either tonight or the trash.

She had the water on when Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket and hanging it on the closet doorknob instead of a hanger, the way he always did.

"There's a hook," she said.

"There's a knob," he said, and kissed the side of her head. He looked into the pot. "Just noodles?"

"Zucchini. And that sausage from Sunday, if you want to cut it up."

He washed his hands and got the cutting board down. The kitchen was narrow enough that they had a whole choreography for it—she stepped back from the stove, he pivoted behind her, neither of them said anything about it.

"Do we have the parmesan or did we finish it?"

"We finished it. There's the shaker kind in the door."

"That's not really cheese."

"Then don't put it on yours."

He put it on his. The zucchini browned in the pan while Dana fished a noodle out with a fork, blew on it, bit it, and decided it needed another minute. Marcus poured himself the last of a bottle of wine that had been open too long and made a face at it but drank it anyway.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had bills on it, and because the Thursday game was on with the sound low. Marcus ate faster and then sat there with his empty bowl in his lap.

"It's good," he said. "The sausage was a good call."

"It was your call."

"I know. I'm complimenting myself."

She nudged his knee with her foot. Later he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the pan needed to soak.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana got home, and Mateo called from the kitchen that he'd already started the chicken.

"Started it how?" She dropped her bag on the chair by the door, the one they both used as a shelf despite agreeing not to.

"Salt. Pepper. That paprika you bought."

"Smoked or regular?"

He held up the tin, squinting at it. "It just says paprika."

"Then it's regular." She came in and washed her hands at the sink, nudging him sideways with her hip to reach the towel. The chicken thighs were browning unevenly, one crowding the next. She didn't say anything about the crowding.

"There's broccoli in the crisper," she said. "It might be past it."

Mateo pulled the bag out and inspected it. A few of the florets had gone yellowish, and he broke those off and dropped them in the compost bin, which needed emptying. "Steam or roast?"

"Steam. The oven takes forever."

He filled the pot an inch deep and set it on the back burner. While it heated he told her about the guy at work who'd sent a company-wide email by accident, and she laughed in the right places while scrolling through her phone, then put it face-down on the counter, which was a thing she'd been trying to do.

They ate at the table, which was really a card table with a cloth over it, because the apartment didn't have room for anything better. The chicken was fine. The rice was a little wet.

"More water next time," Mateo said.

"You made the rice."

"I know. I'm saying it to myself."

She reached over and took a piece of broccoli off his plate, because he never ate all of his, and he let her, because he never did. Afterward he washed and she dried, and they were done by seven-thirty.


The rain had started around five, so Delia came in shaking water off her jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair instead of the hook by the door.

"You're dripping on the floor," Marcus said, not looking up. He was slicing an onion badly, thick uneven half-moons.

"I'll wipe it." She didn't. She leaned over his shoulder. "That's too big. They won't cook down."

"They'll cook down."

"They'll be crunchy."

He handed her the knife, took the bag of frozen shrimp to the sink, and ran cold water over it. The chicken they'd meant to use had gone gray-edged and they'd both silently agreed, that morning, to pretend they hadn't noticed. Now it was shrimp and rice, which was fine.

Delia recut the onions small. The pan was already too hot when she scraped them in and they hissed and browned faster than she wanted. She turned the burner down, added a splash of water from the glass by the sink.

"Do we have that garlic paste stuff?" she asked.

"Door of the fridge. Behind the mustard."

There were three mustards. She found it.

Marcus set the table, which meant two plates, two forks, a roll of paper towels in the middle. He poured himself the last of the orange juice and drank it standing up so she couldn't comment on it, then rinsed the glass.

They ate at the small table with the news muted on the laptop behind them. The rice had gotten a little gluey at the bottom of the pot but the shrimp were good, garlicky, and Delia put too much hot sauce on hers, as always, and then drank most of her water in one go.

"Your mom called me," Marcus said.

"Why you?"

"You didn't answer."

"What'd she want?"

"Thanksgiving. She wants an answer by Sunday."

Delia pushed rice onto her fork with her thumb. "We'll talk about it Saturday."

"That's what I told her."

He did the dishes. She wiped up the water by the chair.


The rice was already going when Priya got home, which meant Dev had beaten her out of the office again.

"There's nothing in the crisper," he said from the stove. "Except that bag of spinach that's kind of, you know."

"Slimy?"

"Aspirational."

She set her bag on the chair that had never once held a person and opened the fridge. Half an onion wrapped in cling film, three eggs, a hunk of paneer she'd bought Sunday with vague ambitions. "Paneer and peas?"

"Are there peas?"

"Freezer peas count."

"Freezer peas are the only peas." He moved aside so she could reach the cutting board, and they did the small shuffle they'd worked out over two years in a kitchen built for one person who didn't cook.

She diced the onion badly, the way she always did, unevenly, and he didn't say anything about it, which she noticed and appreciated. He cubed the paneer while the oil got hot, then dumped it in and let it sit too long, so one side went properly brown and crisp.

"Turn on the fan," she said. "The alarm."

"The alarm's not going to—"

The alarm went off. He waved a dish towel at the ceiling while she opened the window over the sink, letting in February and the sound of someone's car alarm two buildings over.

They ate on the couch because the table had bills on it. The paneer was good. The peas were fine. He'd used too much garam masala and she said so, and he said noted, and ate more of it than she did.

"Rent's due Saturday," she said.

"I know. I moved money."

"Okay."

Later he washed and she dried, and he told her about a coworker's insane email, and she laughed at the right part, and the rice pot soaked in the sink until morning.


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

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the water on and was standing at the cutting board with her sleeves pushed up.

"You're cooking," he said, like an accusation.

"I'm slicing. You can cook."

"That's not what I meant." He hung the jacket on the closet door instead of the hook, which she noticed and let go. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, bumping her hip to make room. "Is there sausage left?"

"Half a package. I was going to do it with just garlic and lemon."

"We could do the sausage."

"Then do the sausage."

He got out the second pan. For a while it was quiet except for the click of the burner igniting and the radio she'd turned on out of habit, an interview she wasn't listening to about a city council election. She slid the zucchini into her pan. He broke the sausage apart with a wooden spoon and asked if she'd heard back about the apartment on Fulton.

"They want first, last, and a deposit."

"That's insane."

"That's what I said. I said it out loud, to her, on the phone."

The pasta went in. She salted the water late, which he did not comment on, because he had decided a year ago that this was the kind of thing not worth commenting on.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had mail on it. He put too much cheese on his. She stole a bite of his sausage with her fork and he pretended not to see. Halfway through, she said the zucchini was actually fine, and he agreed, and neither of them said anything else about the apartment that night.


The rain had started around four, and by the time Dana got home the windows were streaked and the kitchen smelled like garlic. Marcus was at the stove in his work clothes, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, poking at a pan of chicken thighs with a wooden spoon.

"You started without me," she said, dropping her bag by the door.

"I got here at five. I was starving." He stepped aside so she could see. "There's not enough rice. I thought there was a full bag."

Dana opened the cabinet and looked past him at the shelf. "There's couscous."

"Couscous isn't rice."

"It's five minutes." She filled the kettle anyway, and he didn't argue, which meant he agreed. He never said so directly. She'd learned to read the shrug.

She rinsed the last two carrots from the crisper drawer, one of them gone slightly rubbery, and sliced them into coins. Marcus turned the chicken. The skin had gone dark on one side, almost too dark.

"That one's yours," she said.

"It's caramelized."

"It's burnt."

"It's flavor." He pushed the pan off the heat and reached around her for the salt, and she leaned back against him for a second, just long enough, before he moved away to find plates.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table still had her laptop and a pile of mail on it, and because the Mets were playing. Marcus muted the commercials. Dana told him about the woman in accounting who'd microwaved fish again, and he laughed with his mouth full, which she pretended to hate.

The couscous was fine. The carrots were better than either of them expected.

Afterward he rinsed and she loaded, because that was the arrangement, and she stacked the pan on top where it wouldn't fit right, and he moved it without saying anything at all.


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

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

"Pasta?" he said, hanging his keys on the hook by the door, the one he'd installed in March after they'd both spent a week losing them.

"Pasta and chicken and beans. The beans need to get used."

He looked at them skeptically. "Some of those are past it."

"Then pick out the bad ones. That's a job for you."

He washed his hands and started snapping the ends off, dropping the questionable ones in the compost bin under the sink. Dana pulled the chicken meat off the bones with her fingers, shredding it into a bowl, and set the carcass aside because Miguel liked to make stock, though he only remembered to about half the time.

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

"Moved to Thursday. Which is annoying because Thursday I have the dentist."

"Reschedule the dentist."

"I already rescheduled the dentist once."

She grated cheese while the pasta boiled. He sautéed the beans in olive oil with too much garlic, which was how she liked it, and shook red pepper flakes over his half of the pan. They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a puzzle on it, three weeks unfinished, that neither of them wanted to be the one to sweep away.

"This is good," Miguel said, meaning it, twirling pasta.

"It's chicken and noodles."

"It's good chicken and noodles."

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


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Dana got home, and Marcus was already at the counter, sleeves pushed up, cutting a bell pepper into strips that were too thick.

"Those are enormous," Dana said, dropping her bag by the shoes.

"They shrink."

"They don't shrink that much." She washed her hands at the sink beside him, bumping his hip to move him over. "Did you defrost the chicken?"

"Since this morning. It's in the fridge." He tipped the pepper into a bowl. "There's also half an onion from Sunday that we should probably use or throw out."

She sniffed it, shrugged, and started slicing. The kitchen was small enough that they had worked out an unspoken choreography over three years — she took the cutting board end, he took the stove. He set the skillet on the burner and poured in oil, then stood there watching it, waiting for the shimmer.

"How was the meeting?" he asked.

"Moved to Thursday. So I sat in the conference room for ten minutes with Priya reading emails." She scraped the onion off the knife with her thumb. "How high do you have that?"

"Medium high."

"It's smoking."

He turned it down and slid the chicken in, which spat at him. Dana handed him the onion, then the peppers a minute later, and got two plates from the cabinet — the good ones, only because the everyday ones were in the dishwasher, unrun.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had bills and a laptop on it. Soy sauce, a little sriracha for him. The rice was slightly wet.

"Rice is wet," she said.

"I know. I think I used too much water."

"It's fine." She ate it anyway, feet tucked under her, and told him about Priya's sister's wedding. He said they should probably vacuum this weekend. Neither of them got up for a while afterward.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, taking inventory: half a package of chicken thighs, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, a lemon. Rice in the cupboard. That would do.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, the rice was already going and she had the oven heating.

"You're cooking," he said, pleased.

"I'm assembling. There's a difference."

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and took over the green beans, snapping the ends off and dropping them into a colander. They'd worked out this division without ever discussing it—she handled the parts that required timing, he did the repetitive things, the chopping and trimming, because he said it emptied his head out after work.

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

"Postponed. Again." He rinsed the beans. "Third time. At some point you stop believing in the thing."

Dana salted the chicken more heavily than her mother would have approved of and slid the pan into the oven. "Do you want the good olive oil on these or the regular?"

"There's a good one?"

"The tall bottle. Your sister gave it to us."

"Then use it. Otherwise it'll sit there until it's rancid."

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had become a place where mail lived. Marcus put on a nature documentary and muted it, so blue fish drifted silently across the screen while they talked about whether to go to his cousin's wedding in August, and whether the noise in the car was worth taking in.

The chicken was slightly dry. Dana said so first, and Marcus said it was fine, and then admitted it was a little dry, and they agreed twenty-five minutes next time.

He washed. She dried. It took eleven minutes.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide, and she decided on the pasta because it was Wednesday and there were only so many things a person could do with a Wednesday.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, she had the water going and was standing at the counter reading the back of a jar of sauce.

"It says four servings," she said. "Do you believe that?"

"No." He hung the jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook, the way he always did, and she let it go, the way she always did. "There's that half onion in the fridge. From the tacos."

"Is it still good?"

He got it out, sniffed it, turned it over. The cut side had gone a little dry and papery. "Good enough."

He chopped while she salted the water and tore open a bag of spinach that was three days from being a science experiment. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced choreography of eleven months in a one-bedroom: she stepped back, he stepped left, neither of them said excuse me.

"Do we have parmesan or did you finish it?"

"I finished it," Marcus said. "There's that shaker one."

"That's not cheese."

"It's cheese-adjacent."

She got it out anyway.

They ate on the couch because the table had mail on it, bowls balanced on knees, some cooking show on with the sound low. Dana put her feet under his thigh. He complained they were cold. She left them there.

"This is actually decent," he said.

"It's the onion."

"It's the onion," he agreed.

Afterward he washed and she dried, and they argued mildly about whether the pot needed to soak, and it did not, and she was right, and he admitted it in a way that did not entirely sound like admitting it.


The rice cooker clicked to warm just as Dana got home, which meant Theo had started dinner without her again.

"You didn't have to," she said, dropping her bag by the shoe rack.

"I got out early." He was at the stove in his work polo, still with the name tag on, pushing frozen broccoli around a pan with the side of a wooden spoon. "There's a bag of chicken thighs in the fridge from Sunday. I already thawed two."

Dana washed her hands and took over the cutting board without discussing it. This was how it went: he started, she finished, or the reverse. She trimmed the fat off the thighs and cut them into strips while he shook soy sauce into a measuring cup.

"How much brown sugar?"

"Like a spoonful. Don't measure it."

"You always say that, and then you say it's too sweet."

"I say it's perfect," she said, "and then you say it's too sweet."

He poured the sauce in anyway. The pan hissed. He turned on the hood fan, which rattled, and neither of them mentioned that they'd been meaning to look up how to fix it for eight months.

They ate at the coffee table because the kitchen table had a jigsaw puzzle on it that Dana refused to break down until it was finished. Theo sat on the floor with his plate on his knee. On the television, a cooking competition neither of them was watching played at low volume.

"It's good," she said. "Little sweet."

"Uh huh."

"I'm just saying it's true."

He took her plate when she was done and rinsed both in the sink, leaving them there instead of loading the dishwasher, because the dishwasher was clean and unloading it was a whole separate project. Dana turned on the lamp, found the piece she'd been looking for since Tuesday, and pressed it into place.


The apartment smelled like burnt garlic before Nadia even got her shoes off.

"I panicked," Theo said from the stove. "It went from white to brown in like four seconds."

"It's fine." She dropped her bag on the chair that had become the bag chair, sometime in year two of the lease. "Is that the good pan?"

"It's the only pan."

She came around behind him and looked. Sliced chicken thighs, a jar of marinara doing most of the work, a pot of water not yet boiling because he'd forgotten the lid. She put the lid on.

"See, that's why I keep you," he said.

"You keep me because I have a car."

He stepped aside so she could reach the drawer for a wooden spoon, and they did the small shuffle they'd worked out over three apartments — her hip against his, his elbow up out of the way. The kitchen was six feet wide.

"There's spinach in the fridge that's going to turn," she said.

"Put it in."

"In the sauce?"

"It wilts. It disappears. You won't know it's there."

"I'll know it's there."

She put it in anyway, a whole handful, and it collapsed into the red like it had been waiting for permission.

They ate on the couch because the table had his laptop and a half-assembled bike wheel on it. Penne, too much of it, in the wide bowls his mother had sent. The TV was on a show they'd both stopped following.

"This is actually good," Nadia said, surprised.

"The garlic was fine. The garlic was never the problem."

"The garlic was a little bitter."

"A little."

She took his bowl when he finished, because he'd cooked, and he followed her to the sink anyway and started rinsing while she scrubbed, neither of them saying anything about it, the water running warm over both their hands.


The rice had been sitting in the cooker since Tuesday, and Dana lifted the lid to check it before deciding it was fine. "It's fine," she said, mostly to herself.

Marcus was already at the cutting board with a zucchini and the good knife, the one they'd gotten free with a set of pans neither of them liked. "There's half a bell pepper in the drawer," he said. "The orange one. It's a little wrinkly."

"Wrinkly's okay."

"Wrinkly's fine. I just wanted you to know before you saw it."

She found it behind a bag of shredded carrots that had gone slimy at the bottom, which she pulled out and dropped in the trash with a small sound of regret. Two dollars, maybe. She'd bought them with the idea of packing lunches.

Marcus put the skillet on and turned the burner too high, then turned it down when the oil started smoking. The kitchen fan didn't do much, so Dana cracked the window over the sink and cold air came in over the dishes she'd meant to wash that morning.

"Do we have the sesame oil?"

"Behind the vinegar."

"That's the toasted one. Is that different?"

"It's the only one we have," she said, which answered a different question, and he used it anyway.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had a pile of mail on it, and the mail had been there long enough that moving it felt like a project rather than a chore. Dana put a folded paper towel under her bowl. Marcus put on the second episode of something they were three seasons into and paused it twice to talk—once about his sister's car, once about whether they should switch internet providers.

She finished first and took his bowl when he held it up without looking away from the screen.

"I'll do them," he said.

"You did them yesterday."

"I know," he said, and let her.


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

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

"Again?" Dev said, but he was already toeing off his shoes. "Fine. Yeah. I'm not making a case for anything better."

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink while she measured rice into the pot, and they did the small negotiation of space they'd worked out over two years — him at the sink, her at the stove, both of them stepping around the corner of the counter where the drawer stuck out if you didn't close it hard enough.

"You closed the drawer," she said.

"I always close the drawer."

"You closed it last week and it was open Tuesday."

Dev pulled the beans out of the crisper and started snapping the ends off into the trash can he'd dragged over with his foot. Marisol shredded chicken with two forks, which he thought was inefficient and had said so, once, and never again.

They ate at the coffee table because the dining table had become a place where mail lived. The rice was slightly underdone in the center; neither of them mentioned it. Dev put too much hot sauce on his and then drank most of his water in one go.

"Your mom called me," he said.

"About the thing in April?"

"About the thing in April."

"You don't have to go."

"I know." He speared a green bean. "I'll go."

Afterward she washed and he dried, and when the last pan was in the rack he leaned against the counter and finished the story about his coworker's dog, and she laughed at the part he'd known she would.


Dana got home first, which meant she got to decide. She stood in front of the open refrigerator with her coat still on, doing the math: half a package of chicken thighs, a bag of green beans going soft at the tips, a lemon. Rice they always had.

By the time Marcus came in, shaking rain off his jacket, the rice cooker was clicking and the oven was heating.

"Chicken," he said, not a question.

"Chicken. Can you do the beans?"

He washed his hands and started snapping the ends off, dropping them into a colander, tossing the stems in the compost bin under the sink that neither of them had emptied in four days. "This smells like it's turning," he said.

"Then take it out after."

"I'm just reporting."

She patted the thighs dry with a paper towel and salted them harder than her mother would have. Marcus reached past her for the olive oil and their shoulders bumped; he said sorry automatically, and she said nothing, because it happened forty times a night in a kitchen that size.

They ate at the coffee table because the actual table had become a place for mail and a folded laundry basket. The beans were fine. The chicken skin hadn't crisped the way she wanted.

"Oven's not getting hot enough," she said.

"It's an old oven."

"I know it's an old oven."

He squeezed lemon over his rice, which she thought was strange and had thought was strange for two years. On the TV, a show they'd both seen played quietly, mostly for the noise.

"I told Renee we'd come Saturday," he said. "Is that all right?"

Dana considered it. "If we leave by nine."

"By nine." He stacked her plate under his and carried them to the sink, and she heard the water run, then stop, then run again.


The rice cooker clicked over to warm just as Deon came in from the parking lot, still holding his keys.

"You didn't get the cilantro," Priya said. She was standing at the counter in her work clothes, sleeves pushed up, halving a lime with a knife that needed sharpening.

"They didn't have any. They had that stuff in the plastic tube."

"The paste?"

"Whatever it's called. I wasn't spending four dollars on paste."

She let it go. He hung his jacket on the back of the chair where he always hung it, where she always moved it later, and washed his hands at the kitchen sink because the bathroom was down the hall and he was already there. The pan on the stove had black beans in it, the second can, because he'd eaten the first one on toast Sunday night without telling her.

"Cheese or no cheese," he said, head in the fridge.

"Cheese. There's not much left."

"There's enough." He grated it onto a cutting board because the last time he'd used a bowl she'd asked why he needed a bowl.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side, bowls of rice and beans, the lime squeezed over, cheese melting into the middle. The overhead light was too bright but neither of them got up.

"Ravi wants to know if we're coming Saturday," she said.

"Coming where?"

"His thing. The birthday."

Deon chewed. "Is it a party party or a sit-around party?"

"Sit-around, I think. There'll be food."

"Then yeah. Fine."

She nodded and took another bite. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and stopped.

"This is good," he said. "Better than last time."

"Last time I forgot the cumin."

"That's what it was."

He did the dishes. She sat a minute longer, then got up and moved his jacket to the hook.