By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the jar of salsa he insisted they still had.

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“You moved the milk two inches.”

Daniel pulled out the carton, then the orange juice, and found the jar against the back wall. “Strategic searching,” he said.

They had rented the duplex for nearly two years, long enough for the kitchen to feel like theirs despite the landlord’s beige cabinets and unreliable dishwasher. Mail covered one end of the small table: a grocery flyer, Daniel’s new insurance card, and a water bill Maya had circled in blue pen.

“Did you see this?” she asked, nodding toward it.

“I did. I think the toilet’s still running.”

“I’ll email the landlord tonight.”

Daniel drained a can of black beans while Maya tipped the peppers and onions into a skillet. The oil snapped, and he opened the window a few inches, letting in the sound of a neighbor dragging trash bins to the curb.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

He laughed. “Productive.”

“And your day?”

“Fine. Marcus called out, so I covered the front desk through lunch.”

They moved around each other without much thought. Daniel warmed tortillas over a burner, and Maya grated cheese into a chipped cereal bowl. When he reached past her for the cumin, she shifted automatically, then leaned against his shoulder for a second before returning to the stove.

They ate at the table after pushing the mail into a neater pile. Daniel had forgotten napkins, so Maya tore two paper towels from the roll.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“One episode of something,” she said. “Then laundry.”

He glanced toward the basket by the hallway, overflowing with towels.

“Two episodes,” he negotiated.

Maya added salsa to her taco. “Fold while we watch.”

“Deal.”

Outside, a car door slammed. Inside, the dishwasher hummed uncertainly as they finished dinner.


By six thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice for the second time. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, a grocery receipt curled under a bowl of apples.

“Is that enough for leftovers?” Ben asked as he came in from the garage, carrying the recycling bin he had forgotten to put out that morning.

“It says four servings, so probably two for us,” Maya said.

“Fair.”

They had lived together in the small Ohio townhouse for almost three years, long enough to know that weekday dinner was less a planned event than a negotiation. Ben washed his hands and opened the refrigerator. He moved a carton of eggs, found the package of chicken behind it, and checked the date.

“Still good,” he announced.

“I bought it Sunday.”

“I know. I’m providing quality control.”

Maya rolled her eyes and handed him the cutting board. While he sliced the chicken, she rinsed broccoli in the colander and picked out two pieces that had gone yellow. The local news played quietly from a speaker on the windowsill, mostly traffic and weather. Rain tapped against the glass above the sink.

Ben asked how her meeting had gone. Maya said it could have been an email, then told him the whole story anyway. In return, he described a printer jam that had occupied three people at his office for twenty minutes.

They cooked the chicken in a skillet with bottled teriyaki sauce. Maya wiped splatters from the stove while Ben stirred the broccoli into the pan. When the smoke alarm chirped once, he waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Every time,” Maya said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s greasy.”

They ate at the narrow table near the living room, leaving the mail stacked at one end. Ben said he would handle the dishes if Maya packed the leftovers. She agreed, dividing the rice into two mismatched containers for lunch.

Outside, a neighbor’s car door slammed. Inside, the kitchen smelled like ginger and dish soap, and the evening settled into its usual, comfortable shape.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her phone played the local news quietly, mostly weather and traffic.

Evan came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the grocery store.

“You remembered the rice?” Maya asked.

He lifted the sack. “Rice, soy sauce, and the seltzer you like.”

“The lime one?”

He checked the label. “Grapefruit.”

She gave him a look, then smiled. “Close enough.”

They had lived in the small Ohio townhouse for almost two years, long enough to know which cabinet doors stuck and which burner heated too fast. Evan put the groceries away while Maya cut the broccoli into uneven florets. A pile of mail sat near the fruit bowl: a utility bill, two catalogs, and an envelope addressed to both of them from their internet provider.

“Did the electric bill come?” he asked.

“Yesterday. It’s on the fridge.”

“Bad?”

“Not terrible. We should still stop leaving the hallway light on.”

“That’s mostly you.”

“That is absolutely you.”

He laughed and filled a saucepan with water. Maya heated oil in a skillet, then added chicken, garlic, and the broccoli. The kitchen fan rattled overhead. Evan measured the rice, spilling a few grains onto the floor, and swept them into his palm before she could point them out.

While everything cooked, they compared their days. Maya described a meeting that should have been an email. Evan told her the copier at work had jammed three times. Neither story was especially important, but each listened anyway.

They ate at the narrow table by the window, using mismatched bowls. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb. After dinner, Evan packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya loaded the dishwasher.

“Want to watch one episode?” she asked.

“One,” he said.

They both knew it would probably be two.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a chipped blue colander. Outside, a delivery truck idled beside the apartment complex, its backup alarm repeating through the closed windows.

“Did you get rice?” she called.

Evan appeared from the hallway carrying an armful of laundry. “I thought we had rice.”

“We have maybe three tablespoons.”

He set the laundry basket beside the couch and checked the pantry. “Quinoa?”

“Not with stir-fry.”

“People eat quinoa with everything.”

“People on wellness blogs do.”

He laughed and reached for his keys, but Maya stopped him. “Don’t go out. There are noodles in the cabinet.”

While she sliced a bell pepper, Evan filled a pot with water and moved yesterday’s mail away from the stove. He opened an envelope from the electric company, frowned at the amount, and stuck it under the fruit bowl.

“Bad?” Maya asked.

“Not terrible. We should probably stop leaving the hallway light on.”

“That’s your light.”

“It’s our light. We share a hallway.”

They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to know who forgot to buy toothpaste and who left cabinet doors open, but not long enough for the small negotiations to feel automatic.

Evan cut the chicken into uneven pieces while Maya mixed soy sauce, garlic, and honey in a mug. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the knife, bumping hips at the sink, opening the same drawer twice.

“Your mom texted me,” Evan said. “She wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

“She texted you because I didn’t answer.”

“I figured.”

The noodles boiled over. Evan grabbed the pot while Maya turned down the burner, both of them laughing as water hissed on the stove.

They ate at the small table by the window, with laundry still waiting in the basket and two pans soaking in the sink. Maya told him about a tedious meeting. Evan described a customer who had tried to return a used garden hose. Outside, someone walked a barking dog across the parking lot.

“Sunday?” he asked.

Maya twirled noodles around her fork. “Yeah. We’ll go.”

“Okay,” he said, and reached for the hot sauce.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a box of couscous. Rain tapped against the window over the sink. On the counter, her laptop bag leaned against a stack of unopened mail.

Evan came in through the garage carrying two grocery bags and set them beside the stove. “They were out of the good tomatoes,” he said.

“The ones you bought look fine.”

“They’re suspiciously firm.”

Maya picked one up and pressed it with her thumb. “They’ll survive a salad.”

They moved around each other with the ease of people who had shared the small rental house for three years. Evan rinsed the tomatoes and a cucumber while Maya heated olive oil in a saucepan. The dishwasher hummed, still full from the cycle they had started that morning. A dish towel hung from the oven handle, damp where someone had used it to wipe the counter.

“How was the meeting?” Evan asked.

“Long. Denise said ‘circle back’ four times.” Maya poured couscous into the pan. “How was the dentist?”

“No cavities. They still tried to sell me a special toothbrush.”

He began chopping vegetables, pushing the pieces into a blue ceramic bowl. Maya opened the refrigerator, shifting a carton of eggs and two takeout containers to find the feta.

“We should eat those leftovers tomorrow,” she said.

“The Thai or the pasta?”

“Both, probably. It’s getting crowded in there.”

Evan glanced toward the refrigerator. A utility bill was held to the door by a magnet from Yellowstone, beside a photo of them at his sister’s wedding. “I’ll take the pasta for lunch.”

Maya crumbled feta over the salad while he checked the chicken in the oven. When the timer rang, their smoke detector gave one brief, unnecessary chirp as Evan opened the door.

“Every time,” he said.

They carried their plates to the little table by the window. Maya moved a pile of folded laundry from one chair to another, and Evan poured them each a glass of water. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb. Inside, they ate while deciding whose turn it was to call the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet.


By six-thirty, the light had faded from the kitchen windows, leaving only reflections of the room in the glass. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking in the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He moved a jar of mustard and found it lying on its side. “You were right.”

“I know where three things are in this house,” Maya said. “Soy sauce, batteries, and the good scissors.”

They had been renting the small duplex outside Columbus for almost two years. The kitchen was narrow, and when Daniel turned from the refrigerator, Maya had to step aside with the knife held safely against the cutting board. A basket of unfolded laundry waited on a chair near the table. Beside it sat a stack of mail, including the electric bill they had both been avoiding.

Daniel poured rice into a saucepan and rinsed it. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed a new plan, and then nobody wanted to make one.” She slid the peppers into a bowl. “How was your day?”

“Printer broke again. I fixed it by turning it off and back on, so now people think I’m a genius.”

Maya laughed and handed him the broccoli. He cut it into uneven florets while she heated oil in the skillet. Their cat, Juniper, appeared at the sound of sizzling and sat between them with her tail curled around her paws.

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“I thought you did.”

They looked down. Juniper blinked.

Daniel reached for the cat food. “She’s playing us.”

While the vegetables cooked, Maya cleared two places at the table, moving the laundry basket to the floor. Daniel added sauce to the pan and opened a window when the garlic began to smoke.

They ate from mismatched bowls, knees touching under the small table. Afterward, Maya washed the skillet while Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch. The electric bill remained unopened, but he set it on top of her work bag so they would remember in the morning.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed them home. Maya stood at the counter slicing peppers while Daniel changed out of his work clothes. They had rented the second-floor place for almost three years, long enough to stop noticing the crooked cabinet doors but not long enough to replace the landlord’s flimsy blinds.

“Did you get tortillas?” Maya called.

Daniel appeared in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and one sock. “I thought we had some.”

“We have two, and one is basically a coaster.”

He opened the refrigerator as if better news might be hiding inside. “I can run to the corner store.”

“It’s raining.”

“I own a jacket.”

While he went downstairs, Maya put rice on the stove and cleared the mail from the small kitchen table: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Daniel’s cousins. She set the invitation aside without comment. They had already discussed it—hotel prices, time off, what gift they could afford.

Daniel returned with tortillas, a lime, and a bag of tortilla chips they had not needed.

“Impulse purchase,” he admitted, shaking rain from his sleeves.

“Put them in the blue bowl.”

He warmed black beans in a saucepan while Maya sautéed the peppers. They moved around each other with practiced little adjustments: she stepped aside so he could reach the spice drawer; he caught the lid when it slid toward the edge of the counter.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She laughed and handed him the cumin. He told her about a customer who had insisted on speaking to a manager, then revealed that the customer’s complaint had been reasonable.

When everything was ready, Daniel carried the bowls to the table while Maya turned off the stove and checked the burner twice. They ate with the rain tapping the windows, discussing whether the bathroom faucet was getting worse.

“Saturday?” Daniel asked.

“Saturday,” Maya agreed.

For tonight, they left the dishes soaking and split the unnecessary chips on the couch.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper. A moment later, Daniel came in through the laundry room, set his backpack beside the dryer, and loosened his tie.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Three meetings that should’ve been emails.” He kissed her cheek, then opened the refrigerator. “What are we making?”

“Fajitas. Can you do the onions?”

Daniel washed his hands and found the cutting board they used for vegetables. Their rented townhouse had a narrow kitchen, so they had learned to move around each other: Maya shifted toward the stove while he opened a drawer; he stepped aside when she reached for the cumin.

“Did you call the landlord?” he asked, peeling an onion.

“I emailed. He said someone can look at the bathroom fan Thursday.”

“Good. It sounds like a lawn mower.”

Maya tipped the peppers into a hot skillet. They hissed, and Daniel switched on the vent hood. On the counter, her phone played the evening news quietly beside a stack of unopened mail.

“There’s something from the electric company,” Daniel said.

“Probably the new rate notice.”

He frowned at the envelope. “Romantic.”

She laughed. “Nothing says commitment like arguing about thermostat settings.”

While Daniel cooked the onions, Maya warmed tortillas in foil and mixed lime juice into a bowl of avocado. They compared their days: a delayed shipment at her office, a coworker’s birthday cake at his, traffic backed up near the interstate. Neither story was important, but each prompted the familiar questions and small complaints that filled their evenings.

Daniel set two plates on the table, moving yesterday’s grocery receipt and a jar of loose change out of the way. Maya brought over the skillet.

“Want to watch that detective show?” he asked.

“If we clean up first.”

He sighed theatrically. “These negotiations get tougher every year.”

They sat across from each other, knees nearly touching under the small table. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the tortillas were warm, and dinner tasted better than either of them had expected.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and rain. Water ticked against the kitchen window while Maya stood at the counter, slicing a red pepper into uneven strips. Her laptop bag was still on one of the dining chairs, and she had changed out of her work shoes but not her blouse.

Evan came in carrying a damp grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting it beside the sink. “I got parsley, which I know is not the same thing.”

“It’s green,” Maya said. “We’ll survive.”

He smiled and began unpacking: tortillas, a can of black beans, two limes, and the sparkling water she liked. Their cat, Nelson, appeared at the sound of the bag and inspected the floor for anything edible.

“You feed him?” Evan asked.

“I thought you did this morning.”

“I did this morning.”

“Then no.”

Nelson meowed as if presenting evidence.

While Maya sautéed the peppers and onions, Evan rinsed the beans and warmed them in a small saucepan with cumin. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought—she stepped aside for the spice drawer; he reached over her for the wooden spoon.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only four?”

“She may be losing her edge.”

Evan laughed, then told her about a customer who had returned a printer without the power cord and seemed offended when asked about it. Maya squeezed a lime into the pan while he spoke.

They ate at the small table by the window, assembling tacos over mismatched plates. A stack of unopened mail sat between them until Evan moved it to the counter.

“We should deal with that,” Maya said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Definitely tomorrow.”

After dinner, Evan washed the pans while Maya packed the leftovers into glass containers. She wiped the stove, he fed Nelson, and they debated whether they had enough energy to watch an episode of anything.

They decided they did, as long as neither of them had to choose.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counter that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying not to drip rainwater from her damp sleeves. Outside, tires hissed along the wet street.

Evan came in carrying a grocery bag and a stack of mail tucked under his arm. He nudged the door shut with his heel.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said. “I got green beans.”

“That’s fine. Did you get soy sauce?”

He lifted the bottle from the bag like proof in court.

They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Maya cooked more often; Evan washed dishes. He fed their elderly cat, Pepper, who was already circling his ankles and complaining as though no one had fed her in days.

While Maya cut chicken into pieces, Evan rinsed the green beans and snapped off their ends. He told her about a meeting that had lasted forty minutes longer than necessary. She told him the office printer had jammed again and that her manager had blamed “the humidity.”

“Indoor humidity?” Evan asked.

“Apparently it’s very aggressive.”

He laughed, then opened the mail. There was an electric bill, a coupon for a hardware store, and a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. He set the bill beside the fruit bowl.

“We should check the thermostat,” he said.

“After dinner.”

The rice finished first. Maya turned off the burner while Evan heated oil in a skillet. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, passing the wooden spoon and stepping aside to open drawers. When the chicken and beans were done, Evan carried the plates to their small table by the window.

Maya filled two glasses with water and sat across from him. Pepper settled beneath her chair, hopeful and patient.

“Anything good on tonight?” Evan asked.

“Probably not.”

“Perfect.”

They ate while the rain tapped the glass, discussing laundry, weekend plans, and whether the leftovers would be enough for lunch. It was an ordinary dinner, which was exactly what both of them needed.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect Maya standing at the counter, still wearing her office badge. She was slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“Did we use the last lime?” he asked.

“You used it in those drinks on Sunday.”

“They were good drinks.”

“They were mostly lime.”

Daniel shut the refrigerator and checked the fruit bowl, finding one hard lemon between two aging bananas. “Close enough.”

They had rented the small duplex outside Columbus for nearly two years. The kitchen floor sloped toward the back door, and the stove’s front-right burner had to be lit with a match. Their landlord kept promising to replace it. Daniel struck a match while Maya swept pepper seeds into her palm and dropped them in the trash.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

He laughed and poured rice into a saucepan. “I fixed the bathroom drawer.”

Maya looked up. “Actually fixed, or made it close if you lift and push?”

“Actually fixed.”

“Then your day was more productive than mine.”

They worked around each other without discussing it. Maya seasoned chicken thighs and laid them in the skillet. Daniel rinsed the cutting board, then opened the dishwasher and frowned at the clean dishes still inside.

“I’ll unload,” she said.

“You’re cooking.”

“We’re both cooking.”

He handed her a plate to put away and began stacking the rest. The dishwasher door blocked half the narrow kitchen, so Maya had to step over it to reach the spice cabinet. Their cat, Franklin, appeared at the sound of the chicken sizzling and sat beside his empty bowl with theatrical patience.

“You fed him this morning, right?” Daniel asked.

“Yes. He’s running a scam.”

When dinner was ready, they carried their bowls to the little table by the window. Daniel set down two forks, then went back for hot sauce and water.

Maya took off her badge and placed it beside the mail. “We need to call the electric company tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it at lunch.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, Franklin waited beneath the table, and they ate while deciding which show to watch before bed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Her boyfriend, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and the mail.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Credit card offer, grocery coupons, and something from the electric company that looks judgmental.”

Maya smiled. “Put it next to the other judgmental envelope.”

They had lived together in the small Ohio townhouse for almost two years, long enough to develop routines without discussing them. Daniel fed the cat while Maya started dinner. Then he washed his hands, opened the refrigerator, and asked what needed doing.

“Chicken’s in the oven. Can you make the rice?”

He measured a cup into the pot, spilling a few grains on the counter. Maya swept them into her palm and dropped them back into the bag.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes that could’ve been an email.” She shook water from the broccoli. “How was traffic?”

“Bad near the bridge. Also, I think the car needs an oil change.”

They talked over the ordinary noises of the kitchen: the faucet running, the knife tapping the cutting board, the cat crunching kibble by the pantry. Daniel checked the rice instructions twice even though they made it every week. Maya seasoned the broccoli with olive oil, salt, and too much garlic, then slid the pan beside the chicken.

While everything cooked, Daniel emptied the dishwasher. Maya packed leftovers from the night before into a container for her lunch. He held up a chipped mug.

“Are we finally getting rid of this?”

“No. That’s my favorite.”

“You say that about every damaged object we own.”

At seven, they carried their plates to the little table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb. Daniel reached for the hot sauce, and Maya nudged the unopened electric bill toward him.

“After dinner,” he said.

“After dinner,” she agreed, and they began to eat.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and cumin. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a pot of black beans while Daniel leaned over the counter, cutting a bell pepper into uneven strips.

“Those are getting bigger,” she said.

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re going in fajitas, not a cabin.”

Daniel smiled and sliced the next strip thinner. He had come home ten minutes earlier, loosened his tie, and left his work shoes beside the front door. Maya had changed out of her scrubs and into sweatpants, but her hospital badge still hung from her pocket.

On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from Chicago, the electric bill waited to be paid. Daniel nodded toward it. “I can take care of that after dinner.”

“Thanks. I bought cat litter, so we’re probably even.”

As if summoned, their cat, Pickles, walked into the kitchen and sat beside his empty bowl. Daniel dropped the peppers into a hot skillet, and Pickles watched with disappointed concentration.

“No,” Daniel told him. “You don’t like peppers.”

Maya opened the microwave and found the tortillas still inside from the night before. “I was looking for these this morning.”

“I put them there so they wouldn’t dry out.”

“And then we both forgot them.”

The skillet hissed when Daniel added the peppers. Maya lowered the beans and began clearing mail from the small dining table: a grocery flyer, a credit card offer, and a postcard from Daniel’s sister in Arizona. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner, and someone upstairs started a vacuum.

“Anything interesting happen today?” Daniel asked.

“A patient gave me a butterscotch candy. You?”

“Three meetings about having fewer meetings.”

They ate at the table with salsa from the jar and shredded cheese scattered between their plates. Pickles settled under Maya’s chair.

Afterward, Daniel filled the sink with soapy water while Maya packed the leftovers into mismatched containers. They discussed whether they needed more coffee, who would stop for groceries tomorrow, and what episode to watch before bed. Nothing had been decided when Daniel handed her the last clean plate to dry.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and cumin. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a skillet of black beans while Daniel leaned over the counter, chopping a red pepper into uneven squares.

“Those are getting bigger,” she said.

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re half a pepper.”

Daniel grinned and cut the largest pieces in two. He had changed out of his work shirt but still wore his office slacks, wrinkled at the knees from the bus ride home. Maya had kicked off her shoes by the door, where they sat beside a stack of grocery flyers and a package neither of them had opened.

Their plan was simple: tacos, rice, and whatever remained of the cilantro in the refrigerator. Daniel found the bunch tucked behind a carton of eggs, wilted but usable. He filled a bowl with cold water and dropped it in.

“How was the meeting?” Maya asked.

“Forty minutes of deciding to have another meeting.” He slid the peppers into the skillet. “How was your day?”

“One kid cried because the printer jammed. Then I almost cried because the printer jammed.”

From the living room, the dryer buzzed. Neither moved.

“Later,” they said together.

Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs while Maya tasted the rice. It needed salt. She added some, then wiped a streak of tomato sauce from the counter with the dish towel hanging from the oven handle.

“Rent went through,” Daniel said.

“I saw. I’ll send my half tonight.”

“No rush.”

Their cat, Juniper, appeared at the sound of a can opening and wound between Maya’s ankles. Maya set a spoonful of beans aside to cool, then remembered the onions and moved it out of reach.

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Outside, traffic crawled along the avenue, headlights bright in the early dark. Daniel went back for hot sauce; Maya brought two glasses of water.

“Laundry after dinner?” he asked.

She took a bite and nodded. “If we’re very brave.”

They ate while comparing weekend errands, the unopened package still waiting by the door.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and rain. Maya stood at the stove, stirring sliced peppers in a chipped blue skillet, while Daniel came in carrying a damp grocery bag against his chest.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “So I got the ones that always tear.”

Maya glanced over. “A bold choice.”

“It was that or the spinach kind.”

“You chose correctly.”

Daniel hung his wet jacket on the back of a chair, despite the hook by the door, and began unpacking groceries: tortillas, cilantro, two limes, and the coffee creamer Maya had texted him about that afternoon. Their cat, Juniper, appeared from the hallway and inspected the bag.

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“Productive.”

Maya nudged the skillet off the hottest burner. “Can you cut the limes?”

He washed his hands and found the cutting board under a stack of unopened mail. The electric bill sat on top. Daniel tapped it with the knife.

“Due Friday.”

“I’ll pay it after dinner,” Maya said. “Remind me.”

“I reminded you just now.”

“Remind future me.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Daniel chopped cilantro while Maya warmed black beans in a small saucepan. He opened the dishwasher and discovered it was clean, so they paused to put away enough plates and forks to make room in the sink.

Outside, tires hissed on the wet street. Upstairs, someone dropped something heavy, followed by a muffled apology.

Daniel tasted a pepper from the skillet. “Needs salt.”

“It has salt.”

He tasted another. “Needs more salt.”

Maya handed him the shaker. “Then accept responsibility.”

They filled their plates and carried them to the small table by the window. Daniel moved a pile of work papers onto the empty chair. Maya tucked one foot beneath her and squeezed lime over her tacos.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“One episode of something,” she said. “Then laundry.”

Daniel nodded solemnly. “An ordinary Tuesday.”

Juniper jumped onto the windowsill, and they began to eat.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. The townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee they had forgotten to dump that morning.

“Ten minutes,” she called.

From the living room, Marcus said, “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“I said dinner would be easy. Different promise.”

He came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. They had been living together for two years, but neither had solved the problem of where the mail belonged. Marcus opened the refrigerator, moved a jar of pickles, and found the chicken they had marinated the night before.

“Pan or oven?”

“Pan. The oven needs cleaning.”

“The oven has needed cleaning since February.”

Lena looked over her shoulder. “And yet it remains loyal.”

Marcus laughed and took out the skillet. While it heated, he sliced the chicken into strips. Lena measured water into a saucepan, then brushed a few grains of couscous off the counter with the side of her hand. Their cat, Miso, appeared at the sound of the refrigerator and sat hopefully between them.

“You fed her, right?” Marcus asked.

“This morning.”

“I mean tonight.”

Lena paused. “I thought you did.”

Miso gave a small, timely meow.

Marcus filled the cat’s bowl while Lena chopped a cucumber and two tomatoes for salad. They talked about the leaking faucet upstairs, whether they could put off calling the plumber, and a meeting Marcus had endured that afternoon. Lena described a coworker who kept saying “circle back” without ever circling back.

When the chicken began to sizzle, Marcus opened a window. Cool October air drifted in, carrying the sound of a neighbor’s lawn mower.

They ate at the small kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping underneath. The couscous was slightly clumped, and the chicken had too much pepper, but neither complained. Afterward, Lena stacked the plates by the sink.

“I’ll wash,” Marcus said.

“I’ll dry.”

Miso jumped onto the empty chair, watching them as if supervising the arrangement.


Maya heard the garage door shudder open just as she was rinsing a bunch of cilantro. She checked the clock on the microwave: 6:18. A minute later, Daniel came through the laundry room, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl, and bent to untie his shoes.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Two meetings that should’ve been emails.” He opened the refrigerator and stood in front of it. “What are we making?”

“Tacos. The chicken’s already cooked, but we need everything else.”

Daniel took out the chicken and a container of leftover rice. Maya pointed him toward the cutting board, then returned to the sink. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit—one stepping aside while the other reached for a drawer.

He sliced the chicken into strips while she chopped cilantro and half an onion. On the counter, her laptop was still open beside a stack of mail. A reminder about the electric bill glowed on the screen.

“Did you pay that?” Daniel asked.

“Not yet. I’ll do it after we eat.”

“I can do it now.”

“You don’t know the password.”

“I know it has something to do with your childhood dog.”

Maya laughed. “That narrows it down.”

Daniel warmed tortillas in a skillet, flipping them with tongs. Maya mixed a quick sauce from yogurt, lime juice, and hot sauce, then tasted it and added salt. The smoke detector chirped once.

“Battery,” Daniel said.

“It’s been saying that for three days.”

“And yet neither of us has changed it.”

They looked up at the ceiling, then at each other.

“Tomorrow,” Maya said.

“Absolutely tomorrow.”

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Outside, a neighbor walked a beagle past the row of parked cars. Daniel went back for napkins, and Maya moved the unopened mail onto an empty chair.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“Maybe one episode of something.”

“Two episodes?”

“We’ll see.”

He handed her a napkin and sat down. The rice was slightly dry, and one tortilla had burned at the edge, but dinner was warm, the dishes could wait, and for the moment neither of them was in a hurry.


Maya got home first, dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and nudging aside Daniel’s running shoes with her foot. The townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee they had brewed that morning. She changed out of her office clothes, tied back her hair, and stood in front of the open refrigerator.

When Daniel came in twenty minutes later, she was rinsing broccoli at the sink.

“Please tell me we have a plan,” he said, setting his backpack on a kitchen chair.

“We have chicken, broccoli, and half a bag of rice.”

“So, a plan with low confidence.”

“A plan with vegetables.”

He kissed her cheek, then opened the cabinet for the rice cooker. They had lived together for almost two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much discussion. Maya trimmed the broccoli while Daniel measured rice and water. He noticed the recycling bin was full and carried it to the garage before she could mention it.

“How was the meeting?” he asked when he returned.

“Forty-five minutes about a spreadsheet everyone had already approved.”

“Productive.”

“How was your day?”

“One of the kids called me ‘Mr. D’ because he forgot my last name.”

Daniel taught eighth-grade science, and his stories often arrived while he cooked. He seasoned the chicken with garlic powder, paprika, salt, and too much black pepper. Maya started a skillet and wiped a splash of oil from the counter with the dish towel hanging from the oven handle.

While the chicken browned, she sorted the mail: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation for one of Daniel’s cousins. She placed the invitation beside his phone without comment.

They ate at the small table near the window, with the evening news playing quietly in the living room. Halfway through dinner, Daniel pointed his fork toward the broccoli.

“This is actually good.”

“It’s broccoli.”

“Still. Credit where it’s due.”

Afterward, Maya packed leftovers into two containers for lunch. Daniel loaded the dishwasher, leaving the skillet soaking in the sink. They agreed one of them would wash it later, both knowing it would probably wait until morning.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a metal colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her phone played the evening news quietly, though neither she nor Ben was listening.

Ben came in through the garage carrying a canvas grocery bag and the mail. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting everything beside the fruit bowl. “So I got the ones that always tear.”

“We’ll survive.” Maya shook water from the broccoli. “Did you get limes?”

He paused, then reached into the bag with a relieved expression. “Yes. Somehow.”

Their rented townhouse smelled faintly of laundry detergent from the load they had started that morning and forgotten in the dryer. Ben opened a can of black beans while Maya cut the broccoli into florets. They had planned tacos, but the chicken was still half frozen, so they agreed on rice bowls instead.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone said the same thing three different ways.” She slid a cutting board toward him. “Can you chop the onion?”

Ben found the sharp knife in the drying rack. “My afternoon wasn’t much better. The printer jammed, and Greg blamed the paper.”

“The paper had it coming.”

He laughed, and for a few minutes they worked without talking. Maya stirred rice on the stove while Ben sautéed the onion with cumin. He opened the window when the pan began to smoke, letting in the sound of a neighbor’s lawn mower.

They assembled dinner in mismatched bowls: rice, beans, broccoli, salsa, avocado, and the slightly dry remains of a bag of shredded cheese. Ben carried both bowls to the small table near the living room.

“Laundry,” Maya said, sitting down.

“After dinner,” he promised.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I mean it more today.”

She nudged his foot under the table. Outside, the mower stopped. Inside, the dishwasher clicked into its final cycle, and they ate while deciding which of them would call the landlord about the dripping upstairs faucet.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and wet pavement. Rain tapped the kitchen window while Maya stood at the counter, slicing a bell pepper into uneven strips. She still wore her office clothes, though she had kicked off her shoes beside the couch.

Evan came in carrying two grocery bags and nudged the door shut with his heel.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said.

“The ones we always buy?”

“Apparently everyone in Ohio wanted tacos tonight.”

He set the bags on the counter and kissed her cheek. Maya pointed to the stove, where onions softened in a skillet.

“Can you drain the beans? And maybe start the rice?”

Evan loosened his tie and opened a cabinet. “Didn’t we have rice?”

“We did before you made that enormous stir-fry on Sunday.”

“That was meal prep.”

“That was six servings eaten in two days.”

He laughed and found a box of instant rice behind the cereal. While Maya added the peppers, he rinsed a can of black beans in the colander. Their cat, Pickles, appeared at the sound of the can opening and began winding between their ankles.

“It’s beans,” Evan told him. “You don’t even like beans.”

Pickles meowed anyway.

Maya’s phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen and sighed. “My manager. I’m not answering.”

“Good.”

“He’ll probably ask tomorrow why I didn’t.”

“And you’ll say you were operating heavy machinery.” Evan held up the can opener.

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without thinking: Maya reaching past him for cumin, Evan stepping aside to open the refrigerator. He grated cheese while she warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs.

Ten minutes later, they carried their plates to the small dining table, pushing aside a stack of unopened mail and a hardware-store receipt. The rice was slightly undercooked, and one tortilla had a burned edge.

Maya took a bite. “Still better than takeout.”

Evan nodded toward the rain-dark window. “And nobody has to go back outside.”

Under the table, Pickles settled across both their feet.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, sleeves rolled past her elbows, stirring a skillet of ground turkey while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her.

Evan came in carrying the mail under one arm and a grocery bag in the other. He set both on the small dining table, which also held two unopened packages and a stack of library books.

“They were out of the green salsa,” he said. “I got red.”

“That’s fine.” Maya glanced into the bag. “Did you remember cilantro?”

He pulled out a bunch with a flourish, then frowned at it. “It’s a little tired.”

“So are we.”

He laughed and went to wash his hands. Their cat, Pepper, appeared from the hallway and began circling his ankles as if he had been gone for weeks instead of nine hours.

While Maya added taco seasoning and water to the skillet, Evan chopped tomatoes on the cutting board. He told her about a meeting that should have been an email. She told him the upstairs neighbor had texted to apologize for the noise the night before. Their conversation paused whenever one of them needed to open a drawer or move around the other in the narrow kitchen.

“Lunches tomorrow?” Evan asked.

“If there’s enough.”

“There won’t be if you make three tacos.”

“I had yogurt for lunch.”

He nodded solemnly. “Three tacos approved.”

The rice cooker switched to warm. Maya opened a can of black beans, and Evan warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. One edge caught fire briefly; he blew it out before the smoke alarm noticed.

They carried everything to the table, first moving the mail and packages onto the floor. Evan filled two glasses with water while Maya spooned food onto their plates.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“Half a movie,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”

They ate with Pepper watching from beneath the table, both of them pretending not to notice.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she stood at the kitchen counter slicing a red pepper. A moment later, Daniel came in through the laundry room, setting his backpack on top of the dryer.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. The meeting went forever.”

“You’re still in time to grate cheese.”

He washed his hands, kissed her cheek, and opened the refrigerator. Their small rented townhouse always felt especially cramped at dinner, when the dishwasher was running and both of them were trying to use the same stretch of counter.

“We’re out of cheddar,” Daniel said.

“There’s Monterey Jack behind the yogurt.”

He found it and started grating while Maya tipped the peppers and onions into a hot skillet. They were making quesadillas, their usual solution for nights when neither of them had planned ahead. On the table, unopened mail sat beside a bowl containing two soft apples and a handful of keys.

“Did the electric bill come?” Maya asked.

Daniel glanced at the envelopes. “Probably. I’ll check after we eat.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Tonight I mean it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. He opened a can of black beans, rinsed them in the sink, and added cumin after Maya reminded him where they kept it. While the tortillas browned, he emptied the dishwasher, putting two mugs in the wrong cabinet.

“Those go over the coffee maker,” she said.

“They’ve lived here eight months. You’d think I’d know.”

“You’d think.”

They carried their plates to the table and moved the mail to an empty chair. Daniel went back for salsa, and Maya filled two glasses with tap water. Outside, a neighbor dragged a trash bin toward the curb. Upstairs, their cat jumped down from the bed with a muffled thump.

“Anything good happen today?” Daniel asked.

Maya considered. “The printer worked on the first try.”

“Wow.”

“And you?”

“I remembered to buy cat food.”

She lifted her glass. “Successful adults.”

They clinked glasses, ate, and agreed that whoever lost at rock-paper-scissors would clean the skillet.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon dish soap Mara had used that morning. She stood at the kitchen counter in her work clothes, slicing bell peppers while the local news murmured from a small speaker near the sink.

Eli came in carrying the mail under one arm and set his keys in the blue bowl by the door.

“Anything important?” Mara asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the previous tenant.” He held up an envelope. “So, our usual fan mail.”

She smiled and nodded toward the refrigerator. “Can you get the chicken out? I forgot to thaw it until lunch, so it might still be icy.”

Eli washed his hands, checked the package, and pressed a thumb against the center. “Mostly fine. Want me to cut it?”

“Please. Small pieces. I’m too hungry to wait an hour.”

They worked side by side in the narrow kitchen, shifting around each other without much thought. Mara scraped the peppers and onions into a skillet. Eli trimmed the chicken on a plastic cutting board, then carried the trash out because the bag was already full.

When he returned, she was searching the cabinet above the stove.

“We’re out of cumin,” she said.

“Use chili powder?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s Tuesday. Tuesday won’t know.”

She laughed and handed him the spice jar. He seasoned the chicken while she started rice in the dented saucepan they kept meaning to replace.

They talked about ordinary things: her delayed meeting, his coworker’s broken-down car, whether they could postpone laundry until tomorrow. Eli fed the cat, who had begun circling their ankles with theatrical urgency. Mara wiped the counter and set two plates on the small table beside a stack of unopened mail.

Twenty minutes later, they sat down with bowls of chicken, peppers, and rice. The meal was a little too spicy, and the rice had stuck to the bottom.

“Still better than takeout,” Eli said.

Mara took another bite. “And cheaper.”

Outside, someone dragged a trash bin down the sidewalk. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the cat waited hopefully, and they ate without hurrying.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice packet. Rain tapped against the windows of the small duplex she shared with Ben outside Columbus, Ohio. His damp jacket hung over a chair, even though they had agreed—more than once—that jackets belonged on the hooks by the door.

“Twenty minutes,” she said. “Did you remember the broccoli?”

Ben opened the refrigerator and stared inside as if it might appear. “I remembered thinking about the broccoli.”

Maya lowered the packet. “So, no.”

“I got green beans.” He lifted a plastic produce bag from the counter. “They’re practically cousins.”

She smiled and handed him a cutting board. While he trimmed the beans, she measured rice into a saucepan. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the cycle they had run that morning. A grocery receipt, two unopened envelopes, and Ben’s car keys crowded the counter.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only seven?”

“I counted.”

Ben heated oil in a skillet and added chicken thighs they had marinated the night before. They sizzled loudly enough that he had to repeat his story about a coworker accidentally replying to the entire department. Maya laughed, then reached around him to switch on the vent fan.

Their cat, Olive, appeared at the sound of the chicken and sat beside Ben’s feet, looking hopeful.

“You fed her, right?” Maya asked.

“At five-thirty.”

“She says you didn’t.”

“She’s not a reliable witness.”

While the chicken cooked, Maya cleared the mail into a neat stack and finally hung Ben’s jacket on its hook. He noticed but said nothing. Instead, he nudged a green bean toward her with the wooden spoon.

They ate at the small table near the window, with the rain still falling and Olive stationed between their chairs. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Ben loaded the dishwasher. Neither mentioned the jacket or the forgotten broccoli. It was Tuesday, and there would be plenty of time for both.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through the mail. The house still held the day’s warmth, though the October air outside had turned cool. She opened a window above the sink while Daniel set a grocery bag on the counter.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said.

Maya examined the package. “These are fine.”

“You always say that, and then they split.”

“Only when you overfill them.”

Daniel gave her a look and began unpacking cilantro, two limes, and a can of black beans. They had lived together for three years, long enough for the kitchen drawers to contain a mixture of her careful organizers and his loose collection of takeout menus, rubber bands, and batteries.

Maya rinsed peppers while Daniel heated a skillet. From the living room came the low murmur of the local news, followed by a commercial they both disliked. Daniel leaned around the doorway and muted the television.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed a decision, and then nobody made one.” She handed him a cutting board. “Your day?”

“The printer jammed twice. Kevin blamed the paper.”

“Was it the paper?”

“It was Kevin.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Maya sliced an avocado and warmed the beans with cumin. Daniel chopped onions, pausing to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. When a tortilla tore in the skillet, Maya raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Structural failure,” he said. “Unrelated to filling.”

“Obviously.”

They ate at the small table near the window, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. A pickup truck passed outside, its headlights briefly sweeping across the wall. Daniel mentioned that the lawn needed mowing one last time before winter. Maya reminded him they were visiting his sister on Saturday.

“Sunday, then,” he said.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers while she loaded the dishwasher. Maya turned off the kitchen light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room, leaving the clean counters and humming dishwasher behind them.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and into gray sweatpants, but Daniel was still wearing the button-down shirt he’d put on that morning. He stood at the kitchen counter slicing a bell pepper while she rinsed rice in a wire strainer.

“Did you get the landlord’s email?” she asked.

“About the water being shut off Thursday?”

Maya nodded. “Nine to noon, supposedly.”

“So, all day,” Daniel said.

They had lived together long enough to recognize the building’s flexible relationship with schedules. Their apartment, on the second floor of a brick duplex outside Cleveland, had narrow counters and a refrigerator that hummed loudly whenever the heat came on. A grocery list was held to its door by a magnet from a plumber.

Daniel tipped the peppers into a skillet with onions. Maya measured water into the rice cooker, wiped a few grains from the counter, and pressed the switch. They moved around each other without much thought—she opened the cabinet while he stepped aside; he handed her the soy sauce before she asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody opened.”

“That sounds productive.”

“It could’ve been an email.”

“Everything could be an email.”

Their cat, Ruthie, appeared when Daniel opened the package of chicken. She sat beside his feet, looking up with grave concentration. Maya filled Ruthie’s bowl before the cat could begin complaining, then gathered the mail from where Daniel had left it near the toaster.

“One bill, two ads, and something for the people downstairs,” she said.

Daniel stirred the skillet. “We’re out of dish soap.”

“I put it on the list.”

“You put ‘soap.’”

“I trusted you to interpret.”

When the rice cooker clicked, Maya spooned rice into two chipped blue bowls. Daniel divided the chicken and vegetables between them, giving her the larger share of peppers. She carried the bowls to their small table while he turned off the stove and checked the front door lock.

They ate with the local news playing quietly in the next room, discussing whether to watch an episode of their show or fold the laundry first. Both knew they would watch the episode and leave the laundry in the basket until tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Maya was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while Daniel stood at the counter chopping a red pepper. They had been home for less than twenty minutes. Their work bags still leaned against the entryway bench, and Daniel’s shoes sat where he had kicked them off, one on its side.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long,” Maya said, tipping cloudy water from the pot. “Everyone agreed the deadline was unrealistic, and then we kept the deadline.”

Daniel laughed. “Efficient.”

Their cat, June, circled his ankles, hopeful that the pepper might turn into chicken. Daniel nudged her gently away and opened the refrigerator.

“We have half an onion,” he said. “Is that enough?”

“It’s enough for a Tuesday.”

They were making stir-fry, the meal they defaulted to when neither had planned ahead. Maya started the rice cooker, then took a package of chicken from the refrigerator. Daniel heated oil in the skillet and added the onion. The exhaust fan rattled above the stove, as it had since they moved into the rental two years earlier.

“Did you call the landlord about that?” Maya asked.

“I emailed. He said he’d send someone.”

“When?”

“He used the phrase ‘soon as possible.’”

“So, never.”

Daniel stirred the onions while Maya sliced the chicken. They talked about the electric bill, her sister’s upcoming visit, and whether the towels in the washer had been moved to the dryer. Neither could remember starting them.

While the chicken cooked, Maya checked. The towels were still damp in the washer. She transferred them, cleaned lint from the trap, and returned as Daniel poured sauce into the skillet.

“You added too much soy sauce,” she said.

“I added confidence.”

At the table, they divided the rice and stir-fry between two chipped blue bowls. June jumped onto the empty chair and was promptly placed back on the floor. Daniel reached for the hot sauce; Maya passed it without being asked.

For a few minutes they ate quietly, listening to the dryer turn down the hall and the traffic moving past their windows.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect Nina standing at the counter, still wearing her office badge. She sliced a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly down the hall.

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

Evan looked up from the skillet. “Maybe.”

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

He lowered the heat under the chicken and went to rebalance the load. Nina heard the washer lid open, then silence, then the machine starting again with a steadier hum.

“Fixed,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

Their rental house outside Columbus was small, but it had a gas stove and enough counter space for two people if they negotiated. Evan shifted the cutting board so Nina could reach the spice drawer. She handed him the cumin without being asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet everyone already understood.”

“So, productive.”

“Extremely.” She tipped the peppers into the skillet. “Your day?”

“Three customers forgot their passwords. One insisted the website had changed his.”

Evan warmed tortillas over a burner while Nina opened a can of black beans. The smoke detector chirped once, and they both looked up.

“Battery,” Nina said.

“I’ll change it after dinner.”

“You said that Sunday.”

“I’ll change it after dinner tonight.”

She smiled and set two chipped plates on the table. A stack of unopened mail sat between the salt shaker and a bowl holding keys, loose change, and a dog-eared takeout menu. Evan moved the mail to the chair they never used.

They assembled tacos from the skillet, adding shredded cheese and the last of the salsa. Nina carried their water glasses; Evan turned off the stove and checked the knob twice.

At the table, he asked whether they should watch another episode of the detective show. Nina said yes, provided he changed the smoke detector battery first.

Evan took a bite and nodded solemnly. “Fair terms.”

From the laundry room came one final heavy thump. They paused, listening.

“After dinner,” Nina said.

“After dinner,” Evan agreed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. The townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee they had forgotten to empty from the pot that morning.

“Two cups of water,” she said. “That’s what I did last time.”

Evan set a grocery bag on the counter and began unloading it. “Last time it came out crunchy.”

“It was textured.”

He held up a bunch of cilantro. “They were out of parsley. I panicked.”

Maya laughed and took the cilantro from him. They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to know which jokes would survive the end of a workday. Evan worked at a community college across town; Maya handled insurance claims from a desk in their spare bedroom. Neither had done anything remarkable that Tuesday.

While Maya rinsed the rice, Evan chopped an onion for tacos. He told her about a student who had slept through half his lecture and then stayed afterward to ask thoughtful questions. She described a phone call with a man who kept insisting that hail damage was “an act of personal betrayal.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when oil splattered in the skillet.

“Not tonight,” Evan said, pointing the wooden spoon at it.

Maya opened the window over the sink. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the alley. Their neighbor’s dog barked twice and stopped.

They moved around each other without much thought: Maya opened the drawer before Evan asked for the can opener; Evan shifted the cutting board so she could reach the salt. She warmed tortillas while he browned the meat and added seasoning.

“Did you pay the electric bill?” she asked.

“I scheduled it.”

“For today?”

He paused. “For tomorrow.”

“Close enough.”

They ate at the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. The rice was slightly undercooked, but the tacos were good. Afterward, Evan packed leftovers into containers while Maya filled the sink with soapy water. They argued mildly about which show to watch, then agreed on the one they had both claimed not to like.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring onions in a skillet while trying not to splash oil on her blouse.

Evan came in carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. He set both on the small kitchen table, kicked off his shoes by the door, and kissed her cheek.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction on Fifth again.” He unpacked two tomatoes, a loaf of bread, and the Parmesan she had texted him about. “They were out of the cheap kind.”

“That’s fine. Did you get cat food?”

He stopped with the refrigerator door open.

Maya looked at him.

“I’ll go back after dinner.”

From the hallway, their cat, Pepper, gave a short, accusing meow.

“She has enough for breakfast,” Maya said, laughing. “You’re forgiven.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. Evan rinsed the tomatoes and chopped them while Maya added ground turkey to the onions. He opened the dishwasher to find clean plates still inside, so he put them away, pausing to match lids with plastic containers.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She nudged him with her elbow. He sliced the bread and spread butter over it, adding garlic powder before sliding it into the toaster oven. Maya poured canned tomatoes into the skillet, and sauce hissed against the hot pan.

While the pasta boiled, Evan sorted the mail: an electric bill, a furniture catalog, and a wedding invitation from one of his cousins.

“October,” he said, showing her.

“Put it on the fridge. We’ll check the calendar.”

He pinned it beneath a takeout menu with a magnet shaped like Ohio. Then he filled two glasses with water and set out forks.

They ate at the table by the window, the blinds half-open to the parking lot. Pepper sat between their chairs, hopeful and patient. Maya told Evan about a coworker’s broken printer; Evan described a strange voicemail from his landlord. Afterward, he carried the dishes to the sink while she packed the leftovers for lunch, each already moving toward the next ordinary day.


By six-thirty, the light outside the kitchen window had faded, and the townhouse complex across the parking lot was beginning to glow with porch lamps. Maya dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and found Ben standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” she said, pulling off her shoes.

“I have ingredients,” he replied. “That’s close.”

They had both worked late—Maya at the county library, Ben from the spare bedroom they called an office—and neither wanted to order takeout again. On the counter sat two chicken breasts, a bag of spinach, and half a lemon. Maya checked the pantry and found a box of couscous.

“We can make this respectable,” she said.

Ben filled a pot with water while Maya changed into sweatpants. When she returned, he was trimming the chicken and listening to a podcast through one earbud. She nudged his shoulder.

“You missed the recycling pickup.”

He winced. “Again?”

“The bin is still full.”

“I’ll take it next week. Put it on the calendar.”

Maya opened the shared calendar on her phone and added it, smiling despite herself. Then she seasoned the chicken while Ben heated the skillet. The exhaust fan rattled overhead, as it had since they moved in eight months earlier. They had told the landlord twice.

As the chicken browned, Ben emptied the dishwasher. Maya stirred couscous and wilted the spinach with garlic. They talked about small things: a patron who had returned a book twelve years late, the neighbor’s dog barking during Ben’s afternoon meeting, whether they could afford a weekend trip in October.

When dinner was ready, they carried their plates to the small table beside the window. Ben went back for the hot sauce; Maya folded the unopened mail into a neater pile.

“This is better than delivery,” he said after the first bite.

“Cheaper, too.”

Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk. Inside, the dishwasher door stood open and the skillet soaked in the sink. Neither of them mentioned cleaning up yet.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become more useful than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Ben searched the refrigerator.

“Did we use the last lime?” he asked.

“Check the door.”

“I did.”

“The other door shelf.”

Ben moved a bottle of hot sauce and found the lime behind it. “You have an alarming amount of faith in your refrigerator knowledge.”

“I bought the groceries.”

They had both come home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Ben from the insurance office downtown. Their shoes were still by the front door, beside a stack of mail neither wanted to sort. A local news station murmured from the living room.

Dinner was tacos, chosen because the ground turkey needed to be cooked and because neither of them had the energy for anything complicated. Ben heated a skillet while Maya finished the peppers and opened a can of black beans. When the burner clicked without lighting, she reached past him and turned the knob back.

“You have to wait a second,” she said.

“I know.”

“You clearly don’t.”

He smiled and tried again. This time the flame caught.

While the meat browned, they compared their days. Maya described a second grader who had hidden under a table rather than practice his r sounds. Ben told her about a meeting that could have been an email. She laughed, then reminded him the recycling needed to go out.

“I’ll do it after we eat.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll do it before we eat.”

He carried the bin to the garage while she warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs. When he returned, he set out two mismatched plates and filled water glasses.

They ate at the small table near the window. Halfway through dinner, Ben noticed the rent reminder on the counter.

“I’ll transfer my half tonight,” he said.

“No rush. Friday’s fine.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash can down the driveway. Inside, Maya reached for another tortilla, and Ben slid the plate toward her without being asked.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse still held the day’s warmth, though the October air outside had turned cool. She nudged the window open above the sink.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and his laptop case. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said.

“Define good.”

“The ones that don’t tear when you look at them.”

He set the bag on the counter, kissed her cheek, and went to wash his hands. They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner followed a loose rhythm. Whoever got home first started chopping; whoever arrived second handled the stove. Tonight they were making chicken tacos because the chicken needed to be used and because neither of them wanted to think harder than that.

Maya sliced the broccoli for roasting while Evan heated a skillet. “Did the plumber call?” she asked.

“Tomorrow between eight and noon.”

“So, noon.”

“At best.”

She smiled and handed him the cutting board of onions. He tipped them into the pan, and they hissed in the oil. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from a vacation in Maine, their shared calendar showed a dentist appointment, a friend’s birthday, and the rent reminder they no longer needed but had never deleted.

Evan seasoned the chicken while Maya swept stray onion skins into her palm. They talked about her long meeting, his coworker’s new puppy, and whether they could put off laundry until Saturday. The smoke alarm chirped once when Evan opened the oven, and Maya waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Very professional kitchen,” she said.

“Five stars.”

They ate at the small table by the window, passing salsa back and forth. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers into mismatched containers while Maya filled the sink with soapy water. Nothing about the evening was remarkable, but as they moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, each already knowing what the other would reach for next, the house felt settled and entirely theirs.


By six thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the local news playing from the living room.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery bag.

“You remembered the rice?” Maya asked.

He lifted the bag. “Rice, soy sauce, and the good sparkling water. I forgot scallions.”

“We have half an onion.”

“Close enough for a Tuesday.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Maya chopped the broccoli while Evan set a pot on the stove and measured rice. He spilled a few grains on the counter, swept them into his palm, and dropped them in the trash beneath the sink.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She smiled and handed him a cutting board with two chicken breasts. “Your turn.”

While he sliced the chicken, Maya cleared yesterday’s mail from the small kitchen table: a utility bill, a grocery-store flyer, and a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. She added the bill to the stack beside her laptop.

“Electric’s higher again,” she said.

“We used the air conditioner all weekend.”

“You used the air conditioner.”

“The cat looked warm.”

From the hallway, their cat, Pickle, appeared and sat expectantly beside his empty bowl. Evan glanced down.

“See? Fragile.”

Maya fed Pickle while Evan started the chicken in a skillet. Soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and toasted sesame oil. She stirred the broccoli into the pan, and he found two mismatched bowls in the dishwasher.

They ate at the table with the news turned off, comparing weekend plans and debating whether the loose bathroom faucet could wait another month. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Evan washed the skillet, leaving it upside down on a towel to dry.

Neither called the evening special. Still, when they settled onto the couch, their feet touching beneath a shared blanket, the house felt comfortably full.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Lena stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Marcus searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“You looked beside the milk.”

Marcus shifted the carton and found the rice. “I stand corrected.”

They had both come home tired—Lena from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Marcus from a long afternoon of service calls for the internet company. Their shoes sat near the back door, his work boots beside her rain-speckled sneakers. Mail was spread across the small kitchen table: a grocery circular, a credit card offer, and the electric bill they had agreed to open after dinner.

Marcus put the rice in the microwave and began cutting chicken into strips. Lena heated oil in their wide skillet, then swept the peppers and onions in with the side of her knife. The vegetables hissed.

“How was the parent meeting?” he asked.

“Better than I expected. His mom brought a notebook.” Lena stirred the pan. “How was the apartment with the parrot?”

“The parrot knows a bad word now.”

“From you?”

“Absolutely not.”

She gave him a look, and he laughed.

While the chicken cooked, Marcus rinsed their lunch containers and stacked them in the drying rack. Lena filled two glasses with water and moved a pile of unopened mail so they would have room to eat. The microwave beeped. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor started a vacuum cleaner.

They assembled bowls with rice, chicken, peppers, and bottled teriyaki sauce. Marcus carried them to the table while Lena turned off the stove and checked that the front door was locked.

“We need dish soap,” she said, sitting down.

“And coffee.”

“And something for Friday. Your sister’s coming over.”

Marcus added the items to his phone. Then they ate, talking about whether to watch one episode of their show or finish folding the laundry first, both of them already knowing the laundry would wait.


Maya found Ben in the kitchen, still wearing his office badge, staring into the refrigerator as if dinner might announce itself.

“Anything promising?” she asked, setting her tote by the coat rack.

“Half a bell pepper, eggs, and several condiments.”

“There’s chicken in the freezer.”

“Frozen solid.”

Maya opened the pantry. “Pasta?”

“Again?”

She looked at him. “You’re welcome to order something.”

Ben smiled and reached for the pasta. “Pasta sounds great.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the furnace clicking on and the faint thump of the neighbor’s washing machine through the shared wall. Maya changed into sweatpants while Ben filled a pot and cleared the breakfast dishes from the sink. When she returned, she chopped the bell pepper and an onion, sliding the scraps into the compost bin under the counter.

“How was the meeting?” Ben asked.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet everyone had already approved.”

“Productive.”

“And you?”

“A customer yelled at me because his package went to Dayton.”

“Did you personally drive it there?”

“Apparently.”

They worked around each other without thinking much about it. Maya opened a can of tomatoes; Ben stirred the onions. He held out a wooden spoon for her to taste the sauce.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it always does.”

While the pasta boiled, Maya sorted the mail at the small dining table: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and an envelope addressed to the previous tenant. Ben packed leftovers from the refrigerator into containers for tomorrow’s lunches.

They ate on the couch with the local news turned low. Maya tucked her feet beneath her and reminded Ben that the landlord was coming Friday to check the leaking upstairs window.

“I’ll work from home,” he said. “Can you text me the time?”

“As soon as he gives me one.”

After dinner, Ben washed the pot while Maya dried it and put it away. Then she wiped the counters, he locked the back door, and they settled in to watch one episode of a show they both knew would become two.


By six-thirty, the light outside their kitchen window had turned gray-blue, and the neighbor’s porch lamp was already on. Maya set her laptop on the counter and rubbed the marks her headphones had left above her ears.

“Did you remember the rice?” she asked.

Evan looked up from the refrigerator. “I remembered to buy rice.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He smiled, then reached for the saucepan. “I’m starting it now.”

They had lived together for eleven months in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. The kitchen was narrow, with one drawer that stuck in humid weather and a dishwasher that needed a firm shove before it would run. Maya opened the drawer, tugged twice, and found the measuring cup.

While Evan rinsed the rice, she took chicken thighs from the refrigerator and arranged them on a sheet pan with broccoli. He found the bottle of olive oil nearly empty and held it upside down.

“Add it to the list,” Maya said.

“The list that’s on your phone?”

“The shared list.”

“I lost the shared list.”

“You left the shared list.”

“That sounds more intentional.”

She laughed and handed him the paprika. Behind them, the washing machine thumped unevenly in the utility closet. Evan paused to redistribute the towels, then came back carrying one of Maya’s missing socks.

Dinner took longer than expected because the oven had not fully preheated. They stood at the counter eating carrot sticks and talking about their days: her manager’s endless meeting, his customer who insisted a printer problem was “an internet emergency.” Neither story was remarkable, but each listened and asked the right questions.

When the chicken was done, Evan set out two mismatched plates. Maya spooned rice onto them and divided the crispest pieces of broccoli evenly.

“TV?” he asked.

“One episode.”

They ate on the couch with the coffee table pulled close. Afterward, Maya loaded the dishwasher while Evan wiped the counters and packed leftovers into containers for lunch. He pressed the dishwasher door until it clicked.

From the living room, the opening music began. Maya switched off the kitchen light, and they hurried in together.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink. A moment later, Daniel came in through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and leaned his forehead briefly against her shoulder.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Three meetings that should’ve been emails.” He opened the refrigerator. “What are we making?”

“Chicken stir-fry. The broccoli needs to be used before it becomes compost.”

Daniel took out the broccoli, a red pepper, and the package of chicken they had thawed that morning. Maya set the rice cooker on the counter, nudging aside a stack of mail. Their small rental house in Ohio had limited counter space, and dinner preparation usually involved moving the same objects from one surface to another.

“Did you call the landlord about the bathroom faucet?” Daniel asked as he began chopping vegetables.

“I emailed. He said someone might come Thursday.”

“Might?”

“His exact word.”

Daniel sighed. “I’ll put a bowl under it tonight.”

Maya sliced the chicken and added soy sauce, garlic, and a spoonful of brown sugar to a mixing bowl. The local news murmured from the television in the next room. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower started, then stopped abruptly.

“Your mom texted me,” Daniel said. “She wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

“I know. I haven’t answered yet.” Maya glanced at him. “Do you want to?”

“Sure. As long as we leave before your uncle starts explaining cryptocurrency again.”

She laughed and handed him the cutting board. He carried the vegetables to the stove while she heated oil in their scratched skillet. They worked around each other without thinking—Daniel opening drawers, Maya reaching past him for the spatula, both stepping aside at the right moment.

When the food was ready, they filled two chipped blue bowls and sat at the kitchen table, where Daniel moved a folded basket of laundry onto the empty chair.

“We should put that away,” he said.

“After dinner.”

They both knew it would probably wait until morning, but neither mentioned that.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her, still full from the cycle they had run that morning. On the counter, her phone played a podcast quietly enough that she could hear Ben unlock the front door.

“Hey,” he called, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the mail.

“Hey. How was traffic?”

“Bad near the bridge.” He came into the kitchen, loosened his tie, and kissed her cheek. “What are we making?”

“Stir-fry. The chicken needs to be cut up, if you want to do that.”

Ben washed his hands, then pulled the cutting board from the narrow cabinet beside the stove. They had lived in the rented townhouse for almost two years, but he still opened the wrong cabinet first.

Maya smiled. “Every time.”

“I keep hoping you’ll reorganize it.”

“I did reorganize it. That’s why it’s there.”

While Ben sliced the chicken, Maya found the soy sauce and checked the rice cooker. They talked about ordinary things: a meeting Maya’s manager had scheduled for Friday afternoon, the strange noise Ben’s car had made that morning, whether they needed laundry detergent. Ben mentioned that the electric bill was higher than last month.

“Probably the air conditioning,” Maya said, tossing broccoli into the hot skillet.

“Or your habit of leaving every light on.”

“My habit?”

He grinned and handed her the chicken. “Our habit.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when oil splattered, and Ben waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window over the sink. Their cat, Olive, appeared at the kitchen doorway, hopeful and suspicious.

When dinner was ready, Ben carried two bowls to the small table by the window. Maya filled their water glasses and moved a stack of unopened mail from one chair.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“If you fold the laundry.”

“Deal.”

They ate while the rice cooker clicked into its warming cycle, and outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, peeling carrots into the compost bin. His laptop bag still leaned against the front door, beside Lena’s rain-damp sneakers. Outside their duplex in Ohio, a delivery truck groaned down the street.

“Did you get the chicken out?” Lena called from the laundry nook.

Marcus stopped peeling. “I thought you did.”

She appeared with a basket of warm towels balanced against her hip. “I texted you.”

“You texted, ‘Can you handle dinner?’ That’s open to interpretation.”

“It means thaw the chicken.”

He opened the refrigerator. The chicken sat exactly where they had left it that morning, solid as a brick. Lena laughed, set the basket on a chair, and pulled open the freezer drawer.

“Emergency ravioli,” she said, holding up a bag.

While water heated, Marcus chopped the carrots and the last half of a red onion. Lena folded towels at the table, matching them badly on purpose so he would refold them later. They talked about her staff meeting, his stalled commute, and whether the landlord had ever answered about the dripping bathroom faucet.

“No,” Marcus said, sliding vegetables into a skillet. “But I put a bowl under it.”

“A bowl. Our strongest defense.”

“It’s a good bowl.”

Lena found a jar of sauce in the pantry and checked the date. “Still alive.” She poured it into a saucepan, then wiped a red splash from the stove before it could dry. Marcus fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles as if neglected for weeks.

They ate at the small kitchen table with the unopened mail pushed to one side. The ravioli were slightly overcooked, and the carrots were still a little firm, but neither complained. Lena added “thaw chicken” to tomorrow’s shared calendar.

After dinner, Marcus washed the pans while Lena dried. The faucet kept up its patient drip into the blue bowl, marking time beneath their conversation about what to watch before bed.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through the mail. A grocery-store flyer, an electric bill, and a postcard from the dentist landed in separate piles beside the fruit bowl.

Marcus came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and the reusable grocery sack they kept in his car.

“I got cilantro,” he said, lifting the bag onto the counter. “And tortillas. They were out of the small ones.”

“That’s fine. We can make enormous tacos.”

He kissed her cheek, then opened the refrigerator and stared inside as if something new might appear. Lena handed him the container of leftover chicken.

“You shred, I’ll chop.”

Their townhouse kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit. Marcus worked at the counter beneath the microwave while Lena rinsed a bell pepper and sliced it beside the sink. The dishwasher hummed, still running from the cycle she had started that morning. On the floor, a damp dish towel marked where she had wiped up coffee before leaving for work.

“How was the presentation?” Marcus asked.

“Long. Dennis used fourteen slides to say we need a new printer.”

“Maybe he really likes slides.”

“He really likes hearing himself talk.”

Marcus laughed and pulled the chicken apart with two forks. He told her about a customer who had called three times because he had forgotten his password, then remembered it during the third call. Lena heated a skillet and added oil. Soon the kitchen smelled of cumin, onions, and warm tortillas.

While the filling cooked, Marcus set two plates on the small dining table and moved a stack of unopened magazines to the empty chair. Lena spooned salsa into a chipped blue bowl they had bought at a yard sale.

“Trash goes out tonight,” she reminded him.

“I know.”

“You said that last week.”

“I know that too.”

They ate with the television off, comparing schedules for the weekend and debating whether the upstairs faucet was leaking badly enough to call the landlord. Afterward, Lena packed the extra filling for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk, and Marcus glanced toward the door.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Her boyfriend, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and the mail.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said, setting everything on the counter. “I got green beans.”

“That’s fine. Did you get lemons?”

He held one up.

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much planning. Maya filled a saucepan with water while Daniel trimmed the beans over the sink. Their dog, Otis, stationed himself between them, hopeful that something might fall.

“Move, buddy,” Daniel said, nudging him gently with a knee.

Maya opened the refrigerator and found the chicken they had thawed the night before. “Can you start the skillet?”

“Already on it.”

While the pan heated, she patted the chicken dry and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Daniel sorted the mail into piles: a credit card offer for recycling, a utility bill for the desk, and a postcard from his dentist reminding him about an appointment he had forgotten.

“Thursday at eight,” Maya read.

Daniel sighed. “That feels aggressive.”

“You picked the time.”

“I was a different person then.”

She laughed and put the chicken in the skillet. It hissed loudly enough to send Otis out of the kitchen.

Daniel tossed the green beans with olive oil and slid them into the oven. Then he wiped the counter and loaded the cutting board into the dishwasher. Maya stirred the couscous, checked the chicken, and asked how his meeting had gone.

“Long,” he said. “But nobody added another meeting, so I’m calling it a win. How was your day?”

“Mostly emails. Nina brought cupcakes.”

When everything was ready, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. Daniel went back for water; Maya grabbed napkins and turned off the stove. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, Otis settled beneath their chairs as they ate.


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the apartment buildings across the parking lot. Maya came through the front door carrying a canvas grocery bag and found Daniel at the kitchen counter, still wearing his work headset around his neck.

“Did you just finish?” she asked, setting down the bag.

“Three minutes ago. Someone discovered a problem at four fifty-seven.”

“Of course they did.”

Daniel took out a carton of eggs, a bunch of scallions, and a bag of rice. Maya slipped off her shoes and nudged them beside his sneakers, which had drifted into the hallway again.

They had planned to make fried rice with the leftovers from Sunday. Daniel opened the refrigerator and frowned at the crowded shelves.

“Where’s the rice?”

“Behind the yogurt.”

“There are six yogurts.”

“The big container.”

He found it eventually, while Maya changed into sweatpants and returned with her hair tied back. She washed the scallions and chopped them at the small counter beside the stove. Daniel cracked eggs into a chipped blue bowl they had bought at a yard sale during their first month living together.

“How was the staff meeting?” he asked.

“Long. We spent twenty minutes choosing a date for the next meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

She gave him a look, then smiled.

Daniel scrambled the eggs while Maya emptied the rice into the pan. They added frozen peas, soy sauce, and the last spoonful of chili crisp. The smoke alarm chirped once when the pan got too hot, and Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it.

“You’re making it worse,” Maya said, opening the window.

“It’s a proven technique.”

When dinner was ready, they carried their bowls to the small table by the window. A stack of unopened mail occupied one chair, so Maya moved it to the counter.

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

Daniel took a bite. “Absolutely.”

Neither of them moved toward the mail. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb, and inside, the dishwasher hummed through yesterday’s plates.


By six-thirty, the light outside the kitchen window had faded to gray. Maya stood at the counter slicing peppers while Daniel rinsed rice in a metal strainer. They had both changed out of their work clothes—Maya into sweatpants and an old college T-shirt, Daniel into jeans and a sweatshirt with a frayed cuff.

“Did you get the mail?” Maya asked.

Daniel paused. “I brought it inside.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It’s on the table,” he admitted. “Unopened.”

She smiled and nudged the cutting board toward him. “Then you’re in charge of these.”

Their rental house was small, a two-bedroom on a quiet street outside Columbus. The second bedroom served as Daniel’s office and storage for everything they had not decided where to put. In the kitchen, a grocery list was held to the refrigerator by a magnet from a plumbing company. Someone had written coffee twice.

Daniel added the peppers to a skillet with onions and chicken. The oil hissed.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“What about your day?”

He shrugged. “A customer called because he forgot his password. Then he got mad at me because he forgot his password.”

Maya opened the dishwasher and found it clean. “Oh, no.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean we forgot to empty this again.”

Together they put away plates and glasses while the rice simmered. Daniel found a plastic lid with no matching container and held it up.

“Trash?”

“We’ll need it the second we throw it away.”

He returned it to the drawer.

When dinner was ready, they filled two bowls and carried them to the table, moving the mail and a tape measure to one side. Maya opened an envelope from the electric company while Daniel fetched hot sauce.

“Bill went up,” she said.

“Heat stays at sixty-eight.”

“Sixty-nine.”

They looked at each other.

“Sixty-eight at night,” Daniel offered.

Maya nodded. “Deal.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Daniel glanced through the window, then groaned.

“Trash night.”

“I cooked,” Maya said.

“You chopped.”

“I chopped beautifully.”

He laughed, pulled on his shoes, and carried the bin out before the food got cold.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect Lena standing at the counter, still wearing her office cardigan. She sliced a bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her.

Marcus came in through the back door carrying the mail and a grocery bag. He set both on the table, then bent to scratch their dog behind the ears.

“You remembered the limes,” Lena said.

“I remembered two limes,” he replied, holding them up. “And forgot the cilantro.”

“We have parsley.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s green. We’ll survive.”

They had lived in the small Ohio rental for nearly three years, long enough to stop noticing the chipped tile by the stove and to know which cabinet door needed lifting before it would close. Marcus changed out of his work boots near the basement stairs, washed his hands, and opened a can of black beans.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

Lena sighed. “Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody reads.”

“Productive.”

“Very.”

He warmed the beans with cumin while she added chicken and peppers to the skillet. They moved around each other without much thought: she stepped aside for the oil; he reached over her for the salt. When the dog began circling, Marcus dropped a stray piece of pepper into her bowl.

The mail turned out to be a utility bill, a supermarket flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Lena’s cousins. Marcus glanced at the envelope.

“June,” he said. “We free?”

“Probably. Don’t read anything into it.”

“I was reading the date.”

She smiled and bumped his hip with hers.

They ate at the little table under the buzzing pendant light, building bowls with rice, beans, chicken, peppers, shredded cheese, and lime. Marcus mentioned that the bathroom faucet had started dripping again. Lena said the landlord had promised to fix it last month.

After dinner, she packed leftovers for their lunches while he loaded the dishwasher, fitting the skillet in at an angle. Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Inside, the rice cooker stayed warm until Lena finally remembered to unplug it.


By six-thirty, Lena was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while Marcus stood at the counter cutting a bell pepper into uneven strips. They had both changed out of their work clothes: Lena wore an old college sweatshirt, and Marcus had traded his button-down for a T-shirt with a faded baseball logo.

“Did you get the mail?” Lena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I thought you did.”

She looked toward the front door, where their shoes, reusable grocery bags, and a folded umbrella had accumulated on the mat. “I’ll get it when I take the recycling out.”

Their townhouse was small enough that the kitchen opened directly into the living room. From the stove, Lena could see Marcus’s laptop on the coffee table, still open to a spreadsheet, and the blanket they had left tangled on the couch that morning.

Marcus slid the peppers into a skillet with onions. They hissed in the oil. “Chicken next?”

“Give the onions another minute.”

He nodded and reached for the wooden spoon. Cooking together had become easier since they moved in eight months earlier. At first, they had bumped elbows and disagreed about when things were done. Now Marcus handled most of the chopping, while Lena kept track of timing and seasoning.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at it.

“My sister wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

“To your parents’?”

“Apparently.”

Marcus stirred the vegetables. “We can. I just need to finish the laundry before then.”

“You mean start the laundry.”

“Technically, starting is part of finishing.”

Lena laughed and measured water into the rice cooker. Marcus added the chicken to the skillet, then wiped the counter where a few pepper seeds had scattered.

While dinner cooked, Lena carried the recycling bin outside and returned with two envelopes and a grocery flyer. Marcus set plates on the narrow table, moving a stack of unopened magazines to the windowsill.

They ate beside the hum of the dishwasher, talking about a delayed meeting, the neighbor’s barking dog, and whether they needed more coffee. Nothing important had happened that day, and neither of them seemed disappointed by that.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. The dishwasher hummed beside her. Through the window over the sink, the last light caught on the neighboring apartment building’s fire escape.

“Ten minutes,” she called.

Evan came in from the small patio carrying the recycling bin. “For dinner or until you admit we should order pizza?”

“For the couscous. And we’re not ordering pizza. The chicken has to be cooked tonight.”

He slid the bin under the counter and opened the refrigerator. They had lived together for two years, long enough that he knew where everything belonged, though he still left the mustard on the wrong shelf. He took out the chicken and a bag of green beans.

“How was the meeting?” Maya asked.

“Forty-five minutes to decide we need another meeting.” He set a skillet on the stove. “You?”

“Two customers yelled at me. One apologized afterward, so I’m counting that as a win.”

Evan seasoned the chicken while Maya trimmed the beans over the sink. Their gray cat, Pepper, appeared at the sound of the package opening and sat between them with exaggerated patience.

“You already ate,” Maya told her.

Pepper blinked.

A few minutes later, the smoke alarm chirped when oil spattered in the hot pan. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the patio door, laughing.

“Very professional,” she said.

“I had it under control.”

They ate at the small table they had bought secondhand, pushing aside a stack of mail and Maya’s laptop. The couscous was slightly mushy, but the chicken was good. They talked about whether they could afford new tires before their weekend trip and whose turn it was to call the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet.

Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers into containers while Maya loaded the dishwasher. She left the mustard where he had put it.

“Movie?” he asked.

“One episode,” she said.

They both knew it would probably be three.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and laundry detergent. Maya stood at the stove, stirring rice in a dented saucepan, while Daniel came in carrying the mail and a paper bag from the corner market.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I got parsley, but I know that’s not the same.”

“It’s definitely not the same.” She smiled and lifted the lid from the pot. “But we’ll survive.”

Daniel loosened his tie and started unpacking groceries: two limes, a can of black beans, and the hot sauce they both liked. Their cat, Pepper, appeared from the hallway and inspected the empty bag.

“How was your meeting?” Maya asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.” He rinsed the beans in a colander. “How was the dentist?”

“No cavities. They did give me the speech about flossing.”

“You own floss.”

“I also own a yoga mat.”

He laughed, and she nudged him with her hip as she reached for the cumin. They had lived together for almost two years, long enough to move around the small kitchen without asking each other to step aside. Daniel chopped a bell pepper while Maya warmed tortillas directly over a burner, flipping each one with tongs.

On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from New Orleans, a utility bill waited to be paid. Daniel noticed it and said, “I’ll handle the electric after dinner.”

“Can you also check the internet bill? It went up again.”

“Sure. Did you call the landlord about the bathroom faucet?”

Maya gave him a look.

“Tomorrow?” he suggested.

“Tomorrow.”

They assembled their bowls at the counter—rice, beans, peppers, shredded cheese, and parsley pretending to be cilantro. Daniel carried both bowls to the small table by the window while Maya filled two glasses with water.

Outside, traffic moved through the damp street. Inside, the dryer buzzed.

“I’ll fold if you wash the dishes,” Daniel said.

“Deal,” Maya replied, already reaching for the hot sauce.