On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping unevenly in the hall closet. She found Daniel crouched in front of it, holding a damp towel.

“You put the bath mat in with everything else, didn’t you?” she asked.

Daniel nodded. “It seemed efficient.”

Together they redistributed the load, then made coffee and wrote a list of errands on the back of an envelope. They needed groceries, detergent, lightbulbs for the kitchen, and a padded mailer so Maya could return a sweater she had ordered online.

They drove to the post office first. While Maya waited at the counter, Daniel used the self-service machine to mail a birthday card to his sister. Afterward, they stopped at a hardware store. Maya compared lightbulb prices while Daniel searched for the right air filter for the apartment’s furnace. They debated whether they needed a new shower curtain liner and decided they could clean the old one.

At the grocery store, Daniel pushed the cart while Maya checked their list. He picked out vegetables for a stir-fry, and she went to find rice and soy sauce. They met again near the dairy case, where Daniel had added ice cream to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither were the cookies you’re holding.”

She put the cookies beside the ice cream.

Back home, Maya carried in the lighter bags and held the building door while Daniel brought up two heavy loads. They put away the groceries together, wiping a sticky shelf in the refrigerator before fitting in the milk. Daniel replaced the kitchen bulbs while Maya moved the laundry to the dryer.

By midafternoon, the errands were done. Daniel started chopping broccoli for dinner, and Maya folded warm towels at the table. Nothing about the day had been remarkable, but the apartment felt brighter, cleaner, and better stocked. They opened the ice cream early and ate it from two mismatched bowls.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator.

“We have mustard, half an onion, and three kinds of hot sauce,” he announced.

Lena came in carrying the laundry basket. “So, no actual food?”

“There’s one egg.”

They made a grocery list at the table. Lena checked the cabinets while Marcus added items to the shared list on his phone. They debated whether they needed coffee, then agreed they always needed coffee.

Before leaving, Marcus took the recycling down to the bins behind their apartment building. Lena moved the towels to the dryer and wiped detergent from the top of the washing machine. When he returned, they gathered reusable bags from the hall closet and drove to the supermarket.

The store was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Marcus picked out vegetables while Lena compared prices on chicken. He wanted avocados, but she pointed out that the last two had gone bad on the counter.

“We’ll eat them this time,” he promised.

They bought two.

At the checkout, Lena noticed they had forgotten dish soap. Marcus jogged back for it while she unloaded the cart. Their total was higher than expected, so in the parking lot they studied the receipt and discovered the coffee had not been discounted. Lena went to customer service and got the difference refunded while Marcus loaded the trunk.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries, arranging the cans with unnecessary precision, while Lena folded the warm towels on the couch. Then they changed the sheets together, each taking a side of the bed and arguing mildly about which direction the fitted sheet went.

By early afternoon, the apartment smelled like clean laundry and fresh coffee. Marcus made sandwiches, and Lena sliced one of the avocados. They ate at the kitchen table, tired but satisfied, with the rest of Saturday still ahead of them.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, trying to decide whether the milk was still good.

“It expired yesterday,” he said.

Lena carried the laundry basket past him. “Smell it.”

Marcus did, made a face, and poured it down the sink. He added milk to the grocery list stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from a plumbing company.

They had lived together in a rented townhouse outside Columbus for two years. Their weekends often began with the same negotiation: what needed to be done, what could wait, and who had enough energy for which task.

While Lena moved the towels to the dryer, Marcus gathered the recycling and broke down a stack of shipping boxes. Then they drove to the bank, where Lena deposited a check from a freelance project, and stopped at the hardware store for furnace filters and a replacement bulb for the porch light.

At the grocery store, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked their list. They compared prices on coffee, chose chicken thighs for dinner, and argued mildly over cereal.

“That one is basically dessert,” Lena said.

“That’s why it’s good,” Marcus replied, putting it in the cart anyway.

Lena added spinach, apples, rice, and the yogurt Marcus always forgot to buy. At the checkout, he unloaded the cart while she searched the store app for a coupon. They saved four dollars and felt disproportionately pleased.

Back home, Marcus replaced the porch bulb and carried the groceries inside. Lena put away the cold items, then discovered they had forgotten dish soap.

For a moment, they stared at each other across the kitchen.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” Marcus said.

Lena nodded and handed him the clean towels to fold. By midafternoon, the refrigerator was full, the recycling was gone, and the dryer hummed in the hallway. They sat on the couch with coffee, tired but satisfied, discussing whether ordering pizza would undo all their responsible choices.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, shaking the last few grounds from the coffee bag.

“We’re out,” he said.

“I put it on the list.”

The list was taped to the refrigerator beside a wedding invitation from Marcus’s cousin and an overdue reminder from the dentist. They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide most chores without discussion, though not always without negotiation.

While Lena transferred the towels to the dryer, Marcus gathered recycling from the apartment. He flattened cereal boxes and rinsed two jars she had missed. Then they carried everything downstairs, stopping at the mailboxes on the way. Lena sorted out a utility bill; Marcus held up a pizza coupon.

“Dinner solved,” he said.

“Only if we finish everything else.”

They drove first to the hardware store for air-conditioner filters and a replacement bulb for the hallway fixture. Marcus compared filter sizes while Lena checked the photo she had taken of the old one. Neither trusted the other’s memory, and both were relieved when the numbers matched.

At the grocery store, they split up. Lena chose vegetables and bread while Marcus found coffee, detergent, and the yogurt he liked. They met near the meat counter, where they debated chicken prices and decided on beans for dinner instead. Marcus added tortilla chips to the cart. Lena removed one of the two bags.

At home, they carried the groceries up in one trip, each refusing to admit the bags were too heavy. Marcus changed the filter and replaced the bulb. Lena folded the towels, then wiped out the refrigerator before putting away the food.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. They sat on the couch with cold drinks, the utility bill paid online and the empty grocery bags folded under the sink.

“Pizza?” Marcus asked.

Lena looked toward the kitchen, where the beans were soaking.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight we cook.”

He sighed, but got up to chop the onions.


Saturday began with the smoke detector chirping at 7:12 a.m.

Maya pulled the blanket over her head while Ben stood beneath the detector in sweatpants, squinting up at it.

“We need batteries,” he said.

“We’ve needed batteries for two weeks.”

By nine, they had made a list on the back of an envelope: batteries, laundry detergent, coffee, chicken, spinach, yogurt, and something for dinner. Maya added lightbulbs; Ben added tortilla chips.

They carried two baskets of laundry down to the machines in their apartment building’s basement. Ben loaded the washer while Maya wiped spilled detergent from the top. When the machine started, they drove to the grocery store.

The parking lot was crowded. Maya steered the cart, comparing prices on coffee, while Ben checked the produce. He rejected a bruised bag of apples and chose four loose ones instead. At the meat case, they debated whether chicken thighs were worth buying in the larger package.

“We can freeze half,” Ben said.

“If we remember to,” Maya replied, but she put them in the cart.

They split up briefly. Maya found detergent and batteries in the household aisle. Ben returned with spinach, yogurt, and two kinds of salsa.

“We only need one,” she said.

“They’re different.”

At checkout, they bagged the groceries together, placing the eggs and bread on top. The total was higher than either expected, so Ben removed a frozen pizza they had added impulsively.

Back home, they moved the laundry to the dryers, carried the groceries upstairs, and put everything away. Maya divided the chicken into freezer bags while Ben replaced the smoke detector battery and changed the burned-out bulb over the kitchen sink.

After folding warm towels on the couch, they realized it was nearly two. Ben made grilled cheese sandwiches, and Maya sliced the apples. They ate at the small kitchen table, surrounded by grocery bags waiting to be recycled.

“Anything else on the list?” Ben asked.

Maya looked at the envelope.

“Vacuuming.”

They both stared at the crumbs under the table.

“Tomorrow,” they said together.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. Marcus stood in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs.

“I thought we had another dozen,” he said.

“We did on Monday.”

They added eggs and detergent to the grocery list, along with coffee, spinach, rice, chicken thighs, and the yogurt Lena liked. Before leaving, Marcus stripped the bed while Lena moved the towels to the dryer. They worked around each other in the small apartment, opening drawers and stepping aside without much discussion.

Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. Marcus waited near the door, comparing prices for replacement air filters on his phone. Afterward, they drove to the hardware store. He found the correct filter while Lena picked up two LED bulbs for the kitchen fixture that had been flickering all week.

The supermarket was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Marcus pushed the cart, and Lena checked items off her phone. They debated whether to buy strawberries, which looked good but cost more than expected.

“Let’s get bananas,” Marcus said.

“And one pint of strawberries,” Lena replied, placing both in the cart.

At the meat counter, Marcus chose a package of chicken thighs and suggested roasting them with potatoes. Lena went back for lemons and fresh parsley. They split up again near the end: she found detergent and dish soap while he got coffee and eggs.

At home, Marcus carried the heavier bags upstairs. Lena put away the cold food, then realized they had forgotten onions. After a brief silence, they both laughed.

“I’ll use the scallions,” she said.

Marcus replaced the air filter and changed the kitchen bulbs. Lena folded the towels and remade the bed. By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. They sat at the kitchen table with sandwiches, reviewing what remained on their list.

“Vacuuming,” Lena said.

Marcus took another bite. “After lunch.”

This time, neither of them argued.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, holding two nearly empty cereal boxes.

“Do these count as food?” he asked.

“Only if you combine them,” Elena said, adding detergent to the shopping list.

They had lived together in a small apartment outside Columbus for almost two years. Weekdays were too busy for much beyond dinner and dishes, so Saturday had become their day for errands.

While the washing machine ran, Marcus gathered recycling from the kitchen and bathroom. Elena changed the sheets and found three missing socks behind the bed. They carried everything downstairs together: laundry to the shared machines, recycling to the bins, and a bag of clothes they had been meaning to donate.

Their first stop was the post office, where Elena mailed a birthday gift to her sister. Then Marcus drove to a pharmacy so they could pick up toothpaste, allergy medicine, and a prescription. In the parking lot, they compared grocery lists.

“You forgot coffee,” Marcus said.

“You used the last of it,” Elena replied, taking the pen and adding it.

At the supermarket, they split up. Elena chose vegetables, yogurt, and chicken while Marcus found rice, canned tomatoes, and coffee. They met near the frozen foods, each carrying more than planned. Marcus had added ice cream; Elena had picked up flowers marked down to four dollars.

They debated buying paper towels in bulk, checked the price per roll, and decided they had enough storage under the sink. At checkout, Marcus loaded the belt while Elena scanned digital coupons on her phone. The total was slightly under their weekly budget.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries and Elena moved the laundry to the dryer. Afterward, they ate sandwiches at the kitchen counter.

They still needed to vacuum and clean the bathroom, but neither moved immediately. Sunlight fell across the clean sheets, and the apartment smelled faintly of coffee and the inexpensive yellow flowers. For ten quiet minutes, Saturday felt finished.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Ben had started a load of towels without checking the pockets, and one of his work gloves was now knocking against the drum.

“You could pause it,” Maya called from the kitchen.

“I’m hoping it learns a lesson,” Ben said.

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were when they caught up on the tasks they had ignored all week. Maya made coffee and wrote a grocery list while Ben stripped the bed and carried the recycling downstairs. When he returned, they compared plans.

“We need detergent,” he said.

“And actual food,” Maya added. “Crackers aren’t dinner.”

They drove to the supermarket just before noon. Maya pushed the cart while Ben checked prices on chicken and ground turkey. They disagreed briefly about tomatoes—Maya wanted fresh ones; Ben pointed out that they already had canned tomatoes at home—then bought both. Ben chose ingredients for chili, and Maya added yogurt, spinach, apples, and a loaf of bread. At the checkout, she remembered the detergent and ran back while he unloaded the cart.

Afterward, they stopped at the hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement filter for the air conditioner. Ben found the correct filter size on a photo he had taken that morning. Maya picked up felt pads for the kitchen chairs, which had been scratching the floor.

Back home, they divided the work without discussing it. Ben put away groceries and started the chili. Maya changed the sheets, moved the towels to the dryer, and stuck the felt pads under the chair legs. Then they replaced the burned-out bulb over the bathroom mirror together, Ben holding the step stool steady while Maya screwed it in.

By three o’clock, the apartment smelled like onions and cumin. They sat at the kitchen table with coffee, listening to the dryer tumble.

“We forgot trash bags,” Maya said.

Ben sighed and reached for his phone. “I’ll add them to next Saturday’s list.”


On Saturday morning, Lena woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping unevenly in the hall closet. She found Marcus crouched in front of it, holding a damp towel.

“You put the bath mat in with the sheets, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I thought it would balance them.”

Together they redistributed the load, then stood in the kitchen making a list while coffee brewed. They were out of eggs, rice, dish soap, and nearly everything needed for the chili Marcus planned to cook on Sunday. Lena checked the refrigerator and added milk and spinach. Marcus opened the cabinet under the sink and found only one trash bag left.

Before leaving, Lena started the dishwasher while Marcus carried recycling down to the bins behind their apartment building. At the car, they realized they had forgotten the reusable grocery bags. Lena went back upstairs while Marcus checked the tire that had looked low all week. It seemed fine, though he made a note to stop at the gas station later.

The supermarket was crowded. Marcus pushed the cart and compared prices on canned tomatoes while Lena selected produce. They debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of avocados before they spoiled and settled on two individual ones. At the deli counter, Lena ordered turkey for lunches. Marcus remembered coffee just before they reached the checkout line.

Back home, they each took several bags upstairs. Lena put away the cold items and washed the spinach. Marcus divided chicken into freezer bags and labeled them with the date. When the washing machine buzzed, he moved the sheets to the dryer, checking first for the missing sock Lena had mentioned.

By early afternoon, the groceries were stored, the dishwasher was empty, and the apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent. Lena sat at the table to review their monthly budget. Marcus filled two glasses with water and joined her. They still needed to buy a new shower curtain, but neither felt like going out again.

“Next Saturday,” Lena said.

Marcus nodded. “Definitely next Saturday.”


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, holding the empty coffee container upside down as if grounds might appear through persistence.

“We’re officially out,” he said.

Elena added coffee to the grocery list on her phone. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that running errands without a list led to three kinds of chips and no dish soap.

While the washing machine thumped down the hall, Marcus gathered the recycling and carried it to the bins behind their apartment building. Elena stripped the bed and checked the refrigerator. Half a lemon, mustard, and a questionable container of rice occupied the top shelf. She threw out the rice and texted Marcus to add trash bags.

They drove to the supermarket just before noon. The parking lot was crowded with families and loose shopping carts. Inside, Elena chose vegetables while Marcus compared prices on chicken. They debated whether they would actually cook broccoli before it went bad.

“We will if we do it tonight,” Marcus said, putting two crowns in the cart.

Elena selected one and returned the other.

They split up to save time. Marcus found coffee, detergent, and trash bags; Elena picked up eggs, yogurt, tortillas, and ingredients for chili. At the checkout, Marcus noticed they had forgotten onions and jogged back to produce while Elena unloaded the cart.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Elena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned old receipts and an empty water bottle from the car.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items, and Elena washed the broccoli before placing it where they could see it. Then they moved the towels to the dryer and remade the bed together, tugging the fitted sheet over opposite corners.

By midafternoon, the errands were done. Elena made fresh coffee, and Marcus opened the windows. They sat on the couch with their mugs, tired in the mild, satisfying way that came from having restored order to their small shared life.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, holding the empty coffee container upside down as if persistence might produce one last scoop.

“We’re officially out,” he said.

Lena added coffee to the grocery list on her phone. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that running errands without a list meant buying tortilla chips and forgetting dish soap.

While the washer ran, Marcus gathered the recycling from under the sink and carried it to the bins behind their apartment building. Lena stripped the bed and opened the windows for a few minutes, despite the chilly March air. When he came back, they worked together to wrestle the fitted sheet onto the mattress.

At eleven, they drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded with families and employees collecting carts. Inside, Lena chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus picked up coffee, oatmeal, and the cereal he liked. They debated whether they needed more olive oil.

“There’s maybe an inch left,” Lena said.

“That’s enough for one dinner,” Marcus replied, placing a bottle in the cart.

At the checkout, they split the cost through their shared household account. Marcus loaded the bags into the trunk while Lena returned the cart.

On the way home, they stopped at the hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement filter for the furnace. Marcus checked the size against a photo he had taken; Lena found a small pack of picture hooks so they could finally hang the framed print leaning against the hallway wall.

Back at the apartment, they put away the groceries together. Lena transferred the towels to the dryer, and Marcus replaced the furnace filter, reading the arrows twice before sliding it into place.

By midafternoon, the refrigerator was full, the bed was remade, and the hallway print hung slightly crooked. They stood beneath it, considering.

“Good enough?” Marcus asked.

Lena tilted her head. “For today.”

They made coffee and sat on the couch while the dryer hummed down the hall.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was crouched beneath the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The cabinet had smelled damp all week. He found a loose connection in the drainpipe and tightened it while Elena wiped the shelves and set a bowl underneath, just in case.

They made a list on the back of an envelope: milk, rice, spinach, coffee, cat litter, lightbulbs. Marcus added frozen pizza. Elena crossed it out, then wrote it back in when he pointed out that neither of them would want to cook after cleaning.

Before leaving, they carried two bags of recycling down to the bins behind their apartment building. Elena drove because Marcus’s car was low on gas. At the supermarket, they split up to save time. She chose produce and compared prices on chicken thighs, while he found coffee and spent several minutes texting her photos of different brands because their usual one was sold out.

They met near the dairy case. Marcus had forgotten the lightbulbs, so Elena went back while he waited in line at the deli counter. At checkout, they used a store coupon on the cat litter and debated whether the strawberries were worth six dollars. They decided they weren’t.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station and filled Marcus’s tank. He cleaned the windshield while Elena went inside to pay and bought two iced teas they hadn’t planned on.

Back at the apartment, they put away the groceries together. Marcus divided the chicken into freezer bags, and Elena washed the spinach. The towels had finished drying, so they folded them on the couch while their cat climbed into the empty laundry basket.

By early afternoon, the sink cabinet was dry, the refrigerator was full, and the recycling was gone. Marcus put the frozen pizza in the oven. Elena opened the iced teas, and they sat at the kitchen table, tired but satisfied that the rest of Saturday was still theirs.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping against the wall. She found Ben in the laundry closet, crouched beside it with one hand on the lid.

“I think the towels are all on one side,” he said.

Maya helped him redistribute the load, then started coffee while he gathered the recycling. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussion, though neither of them ever remembered to buy trash bags until they were nearly out.

After breakfast, they made a list at the kitchen counter. Maya checked the refrigerator while Ben opened cabinets.

“Eggs, spinach, rice,” she said.

“Coffee filters. And trash bags,” he added, underlining the last item.

They drove first to the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister. Ben waited in line beside her, holding the box when she filled out the address label again after noticing she had written the wrong ZIP code. Next, they stopped at a hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement air filter. Ben compared sizes while Maya looked up their furnace model on her phone.

At the grocery store, they split up to save time. Maya chose vegetables and chicken for the week; Ben found cereal, canned tomatoes, and the coffee filters. They met near the dairy case, where they debated whether they would actually eat a large container of yogurt before it expired. They bought the smaller one.

Back home, Ben carried the bags upstairs while Maya brought in the detergent and hardware-store purchases. They put the groceries away together, moving an old jar of pickles to make room in the refrigerator.

By midafternoon, the laundry was folded, the new bulb was installed above the sink, and the recycling was gone. Maya sat on the couch and opened her laptop to pay the electric bill. Ben dropped beside her with two glasses of water.

“Anything else on the list?” he asked.

She looked toward the kitchen.

“Trash bags,” she said.

They had left them in the car.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We need groceries,” he said.

“We needed groceries three days ago,” Lena replied, smiling as she added detergent to their shopping list.

They lived together in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, where Saturday errands had become an informal routine. Marcus gathered the recycling while Lena checked the refrigerator for anything expired. She found wilted spinach, half a lemon, and a container of rice neither of them could remember making.

After carrying the recycling to the bins, Marcus vacuumed the living room. Lena transferred the towels to the dryer and wiped down the bathroom sink. Around eleven, they collected their reusable bags and drove to the supermarket.

Inside, Lena steered the cart while Marcus read from the list on his phone. They compared prices on coffee, debated whether they would really use a large bag of avocados before they spoiled, and chose chicken thighs over breasts because they were on sale. Marcus picked out onions and peppers for fajitas. Lena added yogurt, bread, and frozen dumplings for a quick weeknight dinner.

At the checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap. Marcus jogged back for it while Lena unloaded the cart onto the belt. The total was higher than either expected, so in the parking lot they looked over the receipt and agreed the olive oil and laundry detergent explained most of it.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Lena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned the windshield with the squeegee.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items, and Lena portioned the chicken for the freezer. Then they folded the warm towels together on the couch.

By early afternoon, most of the chores were done. Marcus opened the windows, and Lena made sandwiches. They ate at the small kitchen table, discussing whether to spend the rest of the day at the park or simply stay home.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open.

“We have mustard, half a lemon, and three kinds of hot sauce,” he announced.

Elena carried the hamper down the hall. “Then we’re ready for the week.”

They made a grocery list over coffee. Marcus checked the pantry while Elena planned dinners around their work schedules. He added rice, dish soap, and cereal; she added chicken, spinach, yogurt, and coffee. Before leaving, they stripped the bed and put the sheets in the washer. Marcus wiped down the bathroom sink while Elena gathered the recycling.

Their first stop was the apartment complex’s recycling bins. After that, they drove to a nearby hardware store because the kitchen faucet had been dripping. Marcus found the right replacement washer after comparing sizes, and Elena picked up two LED bulbs for the lamp in their living room.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Elena chose produce while Marcus went to the deli counter. They met near the dairy case, where Marcus held up an expensive wedge of cheese.

“Not on the list,” Elena said.

“It could be.”

She laughed and put it in the cart, then added store-brand pasta to balance the cost. At checkout, Marcus loaded the conveyor belt while Elena opened the store app for a coupon. They packed the bags together, keeping the eggs and bread on top.

Back home, Elena transferred the sheets to the dryer. Marcus replaced the faucet washer, turning the water on cautiously afterward. The drip had stopped.

They put away the groceries, then made sandwiches with the new cheese and ate at the small kitchen table. There were still chores left—the floors needed vacuuming, and the clean sheets had to go back on the bed—but for a few minutes they sat quietly, listening to the dryer tumble down the hall and discussing what movie to watch that evening.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, trying to decide whether the milk was still good.

“It says Tuesday,” he called.

“It’s Saturday.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Lena came in, sniffed the carton, and poured it down the sink. “Add milk to the list.”

They rented a two-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and had lived together for almost three years. Saturdays were usually for catching up on whatever they had ignored during the week. While Lena transferred the towels to the dryer, Marcus gathered recycling and carried two bins down to the complex’s collection area. Then they changed the sheets together, bumping elbows as they wrestled the fitted corners over the mattress.

Before leaving, Lena checked the refrigerator and added spinach, eggs, and tortillas to the grocery list. Marcus looked through the pantry and crossed out rice after finding an unopened bag behind the cereal.

At the supermarket, Marcus steered the cart while Lena compared prices on chicken. He went back for coffee when she reminded him they were almost out. In the produce section, they debated whether they would actually use a bag of avocados before they softened. They bought two loose ones instead.

They stopped at the pharmacy counter for Marcus’s allergy medicine, then waited behind a family with a full cart at checkout. Lena loaded groceries onto the belt while Marcus opened the store app to find a coupon for detergent.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries and divided the chicken into freezer bags. Lena folded the warm towels and started another load of laundry.

By early afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. They ate sandwiches at the kitchen table while making a short list for Sunday: vacuum the car, call Marcus’s mother, and return a package.

“Not bad,” Marcus said, looking around.

Lena glanced at the laundry basket still waiting by the couch. “We’re not done.”

“Almost,” he said, and got up to fold with her.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, comparing their grocery list to the nearly empty refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Lena replied, carrying the laundry basket down the hall. “And one of them might be questionable.”

Marcus added eggs to the list.

They had lived together in a small apartment outside Columbus for almost two years. Saturdays usually began with ambitious plans and settled into errands. After breakfast, Marcus gathered the recycling and took it to the bins behind their building. Lena wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced the empty roll of toilet paper, then moved the towels to the dryer.

Around eleven, they drove to the supermarket. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked items off on his phone. In produce, she chose apples and spinach; he went back for onions after forgetting them. They debated whether they would actually cook the bag of dried beans Marcus picked up.

“You said that last time,” Lena reminded him.

“This week is different,” he said, putting the beans in the cart.

At the dairy case, Lena compared yogurt prices while Marcus found the least-dented carton of eggs. They bought chicken, rice, coffee, sandwich bread, cereal, and a frozen pizza for the night neither of them wanted to cook. At checkout, they split the bill from their shared household account.

On the way home, they stopped at a hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement air filter. Marcus carried the filter under one arm while Lena found the right bulbs by checking a photo she had taken of the old package.

Back at the apartment, they unpacked together. Marcus put away the groceries and washed the spinach. Lena changed the air filter, standing carefully on a kitchen chair while he held it steady.

By two, the towels were folded, the refrigerator was full, and the errands were done. They ate sandwiches at the table, discussing whether to go for a walk or spend the rest of the afternoon on the couch.


On Saturday morning, Lena woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Marcus stood beside it in sweatpants, holding a twisted bedsheet.

“It’s trying to escape,” he said.

Lena helped him redistribute the load, then started coffee while he opened the blinds. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them, but not long enough to stop disagreeing about how many mugs belonged beside the sink.

After breakfast, they made a list on the back of an envelope. Lena checked the refrigerator while Marcus searched the pantry.

“Eggs, spinach, rice,” she called.

“Coffee filters,” he added. “And we’re almost out of dish soap.”

They drove first to the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to her sister. Marcus waited in line at the automated kiosk to return a phone case that didn’t fit. Next, they stopped at a hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement air filter. Marcus compared sizes while Lena found a small packet of felt pads for the dining chairs.

At the grocery store, they split up. Lena chose produce and yogurt; Marcus went for canned beans, pasta, and coffee. They met near the frozen foods, where he had added ice cream to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“Neither were those flowers.”

She looked at the inexpensive yellow tulips in her hand. “Fair.”

Back home, Marcus carried the bags upstairs while Lena brought in the laundry detergent and flowers. They put groceries away together, debating whether the avocados belonged on the counter or in the refrigerator. Then Lena changed the air filter while Marcus replaced the burned-out bulb over the kitchen sink.

By midafternoon, the sheets were clean, the refrigerator was full, and the apartment smelled faintly of tulips and detergent. They sat on the couch with leftover sandwiches, tired in the modest way that came from finishing necessary things.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping unevenly. She found Daniel in the hallway, holding a basket of towels and listening to the machine struggle.

“You put the bath mat in with everything else, didn’t you?” she asked.

Daniel opened the lid and rearranged the load. “I thought it needed friends.”

While the cycle restarted, Maya made coffee and wrote a grocery list on the back of an envelope. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that shopping without a list meant coming home with three kinds of chips and no dish soap.

Daniel checked the refrigerator. “We need eggs. And that mustard you like.”

“You like it too.”

“I tolerate it generously.”

After breakfast, they carried recycling to the bins behind their apartment building, then drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and Daniel waited while Maya returned an abandoned cart from the space they wanted.

Inside, they divided the work. Maya chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Daniel found coffee, pasta, and laundry detergent. They met near the dairy case.

“Eggs?” Maya asked.

Daniel looked at the cart. “I forgot the one thing I announced.”

He went back for them while she picked out yogurt. At checkout, they realized a digital coupon had not applied, but the line behind them was long, so Maya shrugged and paid. Daniel loaded the bags into the trunk, placing the bread on top.

Back home, they carried everything up two flights of stairs. Maya put away the cold items while Daniel started lunch and discovered they already had two unopened jars of mustard.

In the afternoon, Maya folded the clean towels, and Daniel vacuumed the living room. They argued briefly about where to store the extra detergent, then settled on the hall closet after moving a stack of board games.

By three, the errands were done. They sat on the couch with sandwiches, listening to the dryer turn, both relieved that nothing else needed fixing or buying that day.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was kneeling beside the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The faucet had been dripping all week.

“You need the wrench,” Lena said, carrying the laundry basket down the hall.

“I have the wrench.”

“The other wrench.”

Marcus slid out from under the sink and checked the toolbox. “Right.”

They had lived together for two years in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually when they caught up on everything they had ignored during the workweek.

While Marcus replaced a worn washer in the faucet, Lena sorted mail at the kitchen table. She paid the electric bill online, set aside a jury-duty notice addressed to a former tenant, and added dish soap to their grocery list. Marcus tested the faucet, then wiped up the water beneath the cabinet.

At noon, they drove to the supermarket. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus read from the list on his phone. They compared prices on coffee, chose chicken thighs instead of breasts because they were on sale, and debated whether they already had rice.

“We have half a bag,” Marcus said.

“We had half a bag on Tuesday.”

They bought rice.

At the checkout, Lena unloaded the cart while Marcus bagged the groceries, placing the eggs and bread together. The total was higher than they expected, so in the parking lot they looked over the receipt and discovered the cashier had charged them twice for oranges. Marcus went back inside for the refund while Lena loaded the trunk.

On the way home, they stopped for gas and dropped a box of old clothes at a donation bin. Back at the apartment, Marcus carried in the heavy bags, and Lena put away the refrigerated food. Then they switched the towels to the dryer and ate sandwiches at the kitchen counter.

The repaired faucet stayed quiet. Marcus noticed first.

Lena listened for a moment, then smiled. “Good. Now the bathroom light.”

“That,” he said, reaching for his sandwich, “is next Saturday.”


Saturday began with the sound of the washing machine thumping against the wall. Elena paused in the hallway, listened, and called to Marcus, who was wiping down the kitchen counters.

“Did you put the towels in with the sheets?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Together they shifted the machine away from the wall and redistributed the damp bundle. Marcus restarted the cycle while Elena gathered empty shampoo bottles from the bathroom and added them to the recycling.

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for nearly two years. Their weekends often began with a list stuck to the refrigerator. That morning it included groceries, cat litter, lightbulbs, and returning a package.

Elena drove to the shipping store while Marcus navigated and checked the grocery app for coupons. After dropping off the package, they stopped at a hardware store. Marcus compared LED bulbs while Elena found furnace filters in the correct size. They debated buying a small basil plant, then decided their cat would probably eat it.

At the supermarket, Elena pushed the cart and Marcus read from the list. They chose chicken thighs, rice, spinach, apples, yogurt, and coffee. Marcus went back for onions after they had already reached the dairy aisle. Elena noticed pasta was on sale and picked up two boxes.

“Do we need sauce?” she asked.

Marcus checked the list, then texted himself a reminder to use the tomatoes in their pantry instead.

At checkout, they split the tasks without discussing it. Elena unloaded the cart while Marcus bagged, keeping the eggs separate and putting the frozen food together. The total was higher than they expected, so they studied the receipt in the parking lot and discovered the coffee coupon had not applied. Elena went to customer service while Marcus loaded the car.

Back home, they carried everything inside in three trips. Marcus changed the furnace filter and Elena started a pot of rice. By midafternoon, the laundry was folded, the groceries were put away, and their cat was sitting inside an empty paper bag.

They crossed five items off the refrigerator list and left “clean oven” for Sunday.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had started a load of towels, and Ben was kneeling beside the bathroom sink with a wrench. They had lived together in a small apartment outside Columbus for almost two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them and to argue, occasionally, about whose turn it was to buy dish soap.

“The leak is worse,” Ben called.

Maya came in carrying the laundry basket. A bead of water formed around the pipe joint and dropped into the plastic bowl beneath it.

“Can you fix it?”

“I can try. We may still need to email maintenance.”

While Ben tightened the connection, Maya moved the towels to the dryer and collected empty cans and cardboard for recycling. Then they carried the bins downstairs together. On the way back, Ben checked the mail and found an electric bill, two advertisements, and a birthday card for a previous tenant.

Before lunch, they made a grocery list at the kitchen counter. Maya checked the refrigerator while Ben opened cabinets.

“Eggs, spinach, coffee,” she said.

“Rice,” he added. “And something easy for Monday.”

At the supermarket, Maya compared prices on pasta sauce while Ben picked out onions and bell peppers. They disagreed briefly over cereal—Ben wanted the expensive granola, Maya pointed out it was nearly eight dollars—and compromised on oatmeal and a smaller bag of granola. Ben remembered the trash bags just before checkout. Maya went back for them while he unloaded the cart.

Afterward, they stopped at the gas station. Maya filled the tank while Ben cleaned old receipts and an empty coffee cup from the car. Back home, they carried the groceries upstairs in two trips.

Ben put away the dry goods, and Maya washed the produce. They made sandwiches, then folded the warm towels on the couch. The sink had stopped dripping, though they agreed to check it again later.

By midafternoon, nothing remarkable had happened. The refrigerator was full, the laundry was done, and the apartment felt slightly more orderly than it had that morning.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had started a load of towels and opened every window in the apartment. Cool October air moved through the rooms, carrying the sound of traffic from the avenue below.

Evan emerged from the bedroom holding a basket of clothes. “Dark colors?” he asked.

“Check the pockets first,” Maya said. “Last time you washed a receipt, it snowed paper for a week.”

While he sorted laundry, Maya wiped down the kitchen counters and made a list on the back of an envelope. They needed milk, rice, onions, coffee, and something for dinner. Evan added dish soap and cereal, then crossed out coffee after finding an unopened bag in the cabinet.

They drove to the supermarket just before noon. The parking lot was crowded, and Evan circled twice before Maya pointed out a family loading bags into their trunk. Inside, they divided the list. Maya picked out vegetables while Evan compared prices on chicken thighs. He found a discounted package, but Maya noticed the sell-by date was that afternoon.

“We’re cooking it tonight,” he said.

“Then get it,” she replied.

They met near the dairy case. Evan had also put cookies in the cart.

“Not on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither were those flowers.”

She looked at the small bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in her hand. “Fair.”

At checkout, they used a coupon from the store’s app and packed the groceries into reusable bags. Back home, Evan carried everything upstairs while Maya moved the wet towels to the dryer. They put the food away together, arguing briefly over whether tomatoes belonged in the refrigerator.

After lunch, they drove to the hardware store for a replacement bathroom lightbulb and felt pads for the dining chairs. By midafternoon, the laundry was folded, the bulb was changed, and the chairs no longer scraped the floor.

Maya set the flowers in a jar on the table. Evan started chopping onions for dinner. Nothing remarkable had happened, but the apartment felt cleaner, stocked, and ready for the week.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping unevenly. She found Daniel in the laundry closet, holding a damp towel and staring at the machine as if it had betrayed him.

“You put the bath mat in with everything else, didn’t you?” she asked.

Daniel nodded. Together they redistributed the load, then made coffee and wrote a list for the day. They needed groceries, lightbulbs for the kitchen, and a padded envelope so Maya could return a sweater she had ordered online. Daniel added dish soap to the list. Maya added bananas and crossed out the frozen pizza he had written beneath them.

They left their apartment just before ten. Maya drove while Daniel checked the tire pressure warning on his phone and decided the tires could wait until they reached the gas station. At the post office, he held the envelope while Maya pulled up the return code. The line moved slowly, and they passed the time debating what to cook for dinner.

At the grocery store, Daniel pushed the cart and chose vegetables while Maya compared prices on chicken. They split up briefly—he went for coffee and cereal, she searched for laundry detergent—and met again near the dairy case. Daniel had brought back two kinds of cookies.

“One,” Maya said.

He put the more expensive package back.

They used a coupon at checkout and packed the bags themselves. On the way home, they stopped for air at the gas station. Maya read the recommended pressure from the sticker inside the driver’s door while Daniel worked the pump.

Back at the apartment, they carried the groceries upstairs in two trips. Daniel replaced the burned-out kitchen bulb, and Maya started chopping onions for soup. The washing machine had finished without further trouble. As rain began tapping against the windows, Daniel folded towels at the table while Maya stirred the pot.

They had spent nearly four hours doing nothing remarkable, but by early afternoon the refrigerator was full, the lights worked, and the apartment felt ready for another week.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had stripped the sheets from the bed and started a load of laundry. Marcus opened the windows to let in the cool October air, then carried two mugs of coffee to the kitchen table.

They made a list while eating toast. Lena checked the refrigerator and called out what they needed: milk, eggs, spinach, yogurt. Marcus looked through the pantry and added rice, coffee, and canned tomatoes. They debated whether they still had dish soap until Lena found the nearly empty bottle under the sink.

Before leaving, Marcus gathered the recycling while Lena switched the laundry to the dryer. They drove to the town’s recycling center first, where Marcus sorted glass bottles by color and Lena flattened cardboard boxes. Afterward, they stopped at the pharmacy so Lena could pick up a prescription. Marcus waited in the car and answered a text from his brother about Sunday’s football game.

The grocery store was crowded. Marcus pushed the cart while Lena compared prices on chicken thighs. In the produce section, he chose apples and rejected two bags of wilted green beans before finding a better one. Lena crossed items off the list on her phone.

They each added one unplanned purchase: Marcus chose tortilla chips, and Lena picked a small bunch of grocery-store flowers. At checkout, they divided the bags by weight so neither would have to carry all the heavy items upstairs.

Back at their apartment, Marcus put away the pantry goods while Lena arranged the vegetables in the refrigerator. She noticed they had forgotten onions. Marcus offered to go back, but she shook her head and said they could use shallots instead.

They folded the clean sheets together in the living room, each taking two corners. Marcus remade the bed while Lena watered the plants and placed the flowers in an old glass jar.

By early afternoon, the errands were done. They sat on the couch with leftover soup for lunch, tired in the mild, satisfying way that came from having handled the week’s small obligations together.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels and discovered they were almost out of detergent. Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, writing a grocery list on the back of an envelope while the coffee maker sputtered behind him.

“Detergent,” Lena called from the hallway.

“Already got it,” he said. “Also eggs, rice, onions, and coffee.”

She came in carrying the empty laundry basket. “We have coffee.”

“We have enough for tomorrow morning. That’s not the same thing.”

They divided the chores before leaving. Marcus took the recycling down to the bins behind their apartment building while Lena changed the sheets. Then he vacuumed the living room, carefully steering around the houseplants, and she wiped down the bathroom sink and mirror. Neither task took long, but by the time they finished, it was nearly noon.

At the supermarket, Lena pushed the cart while Marcus compared prices on detergent. She chose apples and checked each one for bruises. In the dairy aisle, they debated whether they would actually eat a large container of yogurt before it expired.

“We always think we will,” Lena said.

“And then we don’t,” Marcus agreed, putting the smaller one in the cart.

They bought ingredients for tacos, a frozen pizza, cereal, and a bag of spinach they both promised to use. At checkout, Marcus unloaded the cart while Lena opened the store app to find a coupon for coffee. The coupon saved them three dollars, which pleased her more than she expected.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Lena cleaned old receipts and an empty water bottle from the car while Marcus filled the tank and checked the tire pressure.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items, and Lena arranged the produce in the refrigerator. When everything was done, they reheated leftovers for lunch and sat at the small kitchen table.

“We forgot paper towels,” Marcus said.

Lena looked at the list on the counter and sighed. “Tomorrow,” she said, and he nodded.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had stripped the sheets from the bed while Marcus carried the laundry basket downstairs to the apartment complex’s shared laundry room. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide chores without much discussion, though not without occasional negotiation.

“You used the last detergent,” Marcus called when he returned.

Elena looked up from sorting mail at the kitchen counter. “Then we’re adding it to the list.”

They drank coffee while making that list. Marcus checked the refrigerator and called out what they needed; Elena compared prices on the grocery store app. Eggs, spinach, chicken thighs, rice, coffee, detergent. She added tortilla chips. He added salsa.

Before leaving, they moved the wet clothes into a dryer and took two bags of recycling to the bins behind the building. Marcus drove, and Elena chose the music, turning it down when they reached the supermarket so she could remind him they were sticking to a budget.

Inside, they split up. Elena went to produce while Marcus found detergent and paper towels. They met near the dairy case, where Marcus held up two cartons of eggs.

“These are cheaper.”

“They’re also eighteen eggs.”

“We’ll eat them.”

Elena considered this and nodded. “Fine. But no frozen pizza.”

At checkout, they unloaded the cart together. The total was six dollars more than Elena’s estimate, mostly because coffee had gone up again. Marcus packed the groceries into reusable bags while she paid from their joint household account.

Back home, they carried everything up two flights of stairs. Elena put away the cold food while Marcus transferred the laundry into the basket. They folded clothes on the couch, matching socks and discussing dinner.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. The refrigerator was full, clean sheets waited on the bed, and the apartment smelled faintly of detergent. Marcus opened the chips, Elena opened the salsa, and they sat at the kitchen table, pleased to have nowhere else they needed to be.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We’re out of everything,” he said.

“We’re out of cereal,” Lena corrected, adding detergent to the shopping list on her phone. “And coffee. And those trash bags you said you’d buy Tuesday.”

Marcus rinsed his bowl and opened the refrigerator. Together they took inventory: eggs, milk, spinach, chicken, and something for dinner. He suggested tacos; she added tortillas, black beans, and salsa.

Before leaving, they divided the other errands. Marcus carried recycling down to the bins behind their apartment building while Lena transferred the towels to the dryer. Then they drove to the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday gift to her niece. Marcus waited in line beside her, holding the box when she searched her purse for the address.

At the grocery store, they each pushed one side of the cart when it pulled stubbornly to the left. Lena compared prices on coffee while Marcus checked their list. He went back for onions after they had already reached the dairy aisle, and she chose a carton of eggs, opening it first to make sure none were cracked.

They disagreed briefly over ice cream. Marcus wanted mint chocolate chip; Lena preferred vanilla. They bought both because they were on sale.

Back home, Marcus carried the heavier bags upstairs while Lena took the eggs and the package from the pharmacy they had picked up on the way. They put groceries away together, moving an old jar of pickles to make room for the salsa.

The dryer buzzed. Lena folded the towels on the couch while Marcus replaced the kitchen trash bag and wiped down the counters. By midafternoon, the errands were done.

Marcus made coffee from the new bag, and Lena opened the windows to let in the mild spring air. They sat at the small kitchen table, tired but satisfied, discussing whether tacos counted as an early dinner if they started cooking at four.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels, and Daniel was standing in the kitchen, holding two nearly empty cereal boxes.

“Do we need both of these?” he asked.

“We need neither of those,” Maya said, adding detergent to the shopping list on her phone. “Unless you plan to eat the crumbs.”

They lived together in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturdays had become their unofficial maintenance day. While the washing machine ran, Daniel gathered the recycling and carried it to the bins behind the building. Maya wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb in the hallway. Then they switched jobs: Daniel vacuumed the living room while Maya folded the dry clothes left from Thursday.

Around eleven, they drove to the grocery store. Daniel pushed the cart, steering around a display of discounted soda, while Maya checked their list. They compared prices on coffee, debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach, and chose chicken thighs over breasts because they were cheaper.

“You said you wanted lunches for work,” Daniel reminded her, placing a container of rice in the cart.

“I also said I didn’t want to eat the same thing five days in a row.”

They settled on ingredients for chicken bowls, pasta, and sandwiches. At the register, Maya used the store app for coupons, and Daniel packed the bags, separating the eggs and bread from the heavier cans.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned fast-food wrappers from the back seat and checked the tire pressure.

Back at the apartment, they carried the groceries upstairs in two trips. Daniel put away the pantry items as Maya divided the chicken into freezer bags. The towels had finished drying, so they folded them together at the kitchen table.

By early afternoon, most of the chores were done. Daniel made grilled cheese sandwiches, and Maya heated tomato soup. They ate on the couch, tired but satisfied, while the vacuum sat in the hallway, still waiting to be put away.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, trying to decide whether the milk had gone bad.

“It smells fine,” he said.

Lena leaned over the carton. “That is not fine.”

Marcus poured it down the sink while she added milk to the grocery list. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussion, though neither of them ever remembered to buy trash bags until they were down to the last one.

After breakfast, Marcus moved the laundry to the dryer and gathered the recycling. Lena wiped down the bathroom sink, replaced an empty roll of toilet paper, and discovered they were nearly out of toothpaste. She called the addition down the hall.

At the apartment complex’s recycling bins, they sorted cardboard and glass, then drove to the pharmacy. Marcus picked up a prescription and compared prices on toothpaste while Lena searched for lightbulbs for the lamp beside their couch. They left with both, plus a pack of batteries they had not planned to buy.

The supermarket was crowded with families and college students. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked their list. They chose chicken thighs, rice, spinach, apples, coffee, and the milk they had thrown away that morning. Marcus wanted a frozen pizza; Lena pointed out that they already had one.

“No, we have half of one,” he said.

“That counts.”

They compromised on a bag of tortilla chips.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries while Lena folded the towels, and then they switched tasks: she portioned the chicken for the freezer while he vacuumed the living room.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Lena sat at the table to review their bills, and Marcus replaced the dead lightbulb. When the lamp came on, they both looked at it with mild satisfaction.

“Productive,” he said.

Lena opened the chips. “Productive enough.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list beneath a magnet on the refrigerator, covered in additions from both of them. Daniel had written coffee, dish soap, and lightbulbs in cramped blue ink. Maya had added spinach, rice, and the specific brand of yogurt he always forgot.

They left their rented duplex just after ten. Daniel drove while Maya checked the pharmacy app on her phone to make sure her prescription was ready. At the first stop, she went inside to pick it up while he used the ATM in the lobby. When they met by the automatic doors, Daniel handed her twenty dollars he owed her for the internet bill.

Their next stop was the post office. Maya waited in the car with the windows cracked while Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Oregon. He returned holding the receipt like proof of a difficult accomplishment.

“Only six days late,” Maya said.

“Practically early for me.”

At the hardware store, they compared LED bulbs under the harsh aisle lights. Daniel wanted the cheaper box, but Maya pointed out that the bulbs were too bright for their bedroom lamps. They settled on a warmer set and added a small packet of picture hooks for the framed print that had been leaning against their hallway wall for three months.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya steered the cart while Daniel crossed items off the list. He chose tomatoes; she checked them for soft spots. She found the yogurt; he remembered the coffee. At the register, they divided the cost without discussion—Daniel paid for groceries, and Maya transferred her half while they waited for the receipt.

Back home, they carried the bags in together. Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya sorted the produce. Then he replaced the burned-out kitchen bulb, and she finally opened the picture hooks.

By noon, the errands were done. They stood in the hallway, adjusting the frame until it looked level, each insisting the other’s side was crooked.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator. “We’re out of eggs, spinach, and anything that qualifies as lunch,” she said.

Evan, her boyfriend of four years, held up an almost-empty jar of peanut butter. “We have this.”

“That is not lunch.”

They had shared the small Ohio townhouse for nearly two years, long enough to develop an efficient weekend routine. Maya added coffee to the list while Evan gathered reusable bags from the hall closet. Before leaving, he carried a box of flattened cardboard to the recycling bin, and she checked that the utility bill they needed to mail was in her purse.

Their first stop was the post office. Evan bought stamps from the machine while Maya dropped the envelope into the outgoing-mail slot. Next, they drove to the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Evan wandered to the household aisle for toothpaste and dishwasher tablets.

At the grocery store, they divided the list without formally discussing it. Maya chose produce and compared prices on yogurt. Evan went to the deli, then returned with turkey, cheese, and a bag of tortilla chips that had not been requested.

“We already have snacks,” Maya said.

“We have responsible snacks,” he replied, placing the chips in the cart.

She left them there.

At checkout, Evan loaded the belt while Maya scanned the store’s rewards app. They split the total from their joint household account, then carried the bags to the car together.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya cleaned the windshield while Evan filled the tank. Back at the townhouse, he brought in the groceries and she put away the cold items. They met at the counter to unpack the final bag.

Evan held up the chips. “Worth it.”

Maya opened them, took one, and nodded. “Maybe.”

By noon, the errands were finished, the refrigerator was full, and they sat together on the couch eating sandwiches before the rest of the weekend began.


On Saturday morning, Elena found Marcus in the kitchen, studying the grocery list they kept on the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, and their weekend errands had settled into a familiar rhythm.

“We’re out of coffee,” Marcus said, adding it to the list.

“And cat litter,” Elena replied. Their cat, Pepper, watched from the hallway as if personally offended by the delay.

They left just before ten, Elena driving while Marcus checked the route on his phone. Their first stop was the bank, where Elena deposited a check from a freelance project. While she used the ATM, Marcus walked next door to the pharmacy and picked up a prescription. They met back at the car, comparing receipts before heading to the post office.

Inside, Marcus waited in line to mail a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. Elena browsed the greeting cards and found one for their neighbor, who had recently retired. By the time they returned to the car, a light rain had started.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Elena chose produce and bread while Marcus collected canned goods, pasta, and coffee. They met near the dairy case, where they debated whether they needed one carton of eggs or two.

“Two,” Elena decided. “I want to make that quiche tomorrow.”

Marcus added a bag of shredded cheese to the cart. “Then we’ll need this too.”

At checkout, Elena used the store’s rewards app while Marcus bagged the groceries, putting the eggs and tomatoes on top. Their final stop was the hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement air filter. Marcus found the correct filter size, and Elena picked up a small basil plant for the kitchen window.

Back home, they carried everything inside in two trips. Marcus changed the air filter while Elena unpacked the groceries. Afterward, they made sandwiches and sat at the kitchen table, listening to the rain.

Pepper sniffed the basil plant, then walked away.

“Successful trip,” Marcus said.

Elena raised her coffee mug. “Nothing forgotten.”

From the hallway came an impatient meow.

“Except the cat litter,” he said.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter in their rented duplex in Columbus, Ohio, checking the refrigerator while Ben added items to a grocery list on his phone. They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough to know that “a few errands” could consume most of the afternoon if they did not make a plan.

“Milk, spinach, eggs,” Maya said, moving jars aside. “And coffee.”

Ben held up the nearly empty bag. “Definitely coffee.”

They left around ten, with Maya driving and Ben navigating. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Ben bought stamps and found an envelope for the rent check their landlord still insisted on receiving by mail.

Next, they drove to a pharmacy. Ben picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine before choosing the store brand. At the checkout, Ben remembered they needed batteries for the smoke detector, so Maya ran back to get them while he paid.

The grocery store was crowded. They divided the list without discussing it: Maya headed toward produce, and Ben went to the dairy aisle. They met near the pasta, each carrying more than planned. Ben had found a sale on frozen pizzas; Maya had added strawberries and a loaf of sourdough.

“Budget?” he asked.

“Still alive,” she said, placing the bread in the cart.

At self-checkout, Maya scanned while Ben bagged, keeping the eggs and tomatoes away from the canned goods. They loaded everything into the trunk, then stopped at a gas station on the way home. Maya filled the tank while Ben cleaned the windshield and threw away old receipts from the console.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Ben replaced the smoke detector batteries, and Maya put away the groceries. By noon, the refrigerator was full, the errands were finished, and they agreed that the frozen pizza could wait until dinner.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter in their rented duplex in Columbus, Ohio, checking the refrigerator while Ben added items to a grocery list on his phone. They had lived together for almost two years, long enough to know that “just a few things” usually became a full cart.

“We’re out of eggs,” Maya said, holding up the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Ben replied. “That’s more urgent.”

They left around ten, taking Maya’s hatchback because Ben’s truck was low on gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Ben mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Maya bought stamps from the kiosk and texted their landlord about a dripping outdoor faucet.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Ben found the allergy medicine he needed. At the checkout, he remembered they were nearly out of toothpaste, so he jogged back to the proper aisle while Maya paid for the other items.

They crossed the shopping center to the bank, where Maya deposited a check from a freelance project. Ben used the ATM, then suggested they stop for lunch, but Maya reminded him they still had groceries to buy and frozen food would complicate things.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Maya chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Ben collected cereal, canned tomatoes, coffee, and dish soap. They met near the dairy case, each carrying something not on the list: Maya had fresh flowers, and Ben had a bag of tortilla chips.

“Necessary?” she asked.

“As necessary as those,” he said, nodding at the flowers.

They both kept their extras.

On the way home, they stopped for gas and took turns cleaning trash from the car while the tank filled. Back at the duplex, Ben carried in the heavy bags, and Maya put away the cold items. By early afternoon, the errands were finished. They made sandwiches, opened the chips, and sat together on the back steps, pleased to have the rest of the weekend free.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter checking the grocery list while Daniel searched the hall closet for reusable bags. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to develop a routine but not long enough to stop misplacing things.

“The bags are in your trunk,” Maya reminded him.

Daniel paused. “Right. Because I forgot them last time.”

They drove first to the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel used the self-service machine to buy stamps and checked their mailbox. He returned holding a utility bill that had somehow escaped paperless billing.

Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya wandered two aisles over to compare prices on allergy medicine. She chose the store brand, then added toothpaste to their basket after remembering they had squeezed the last tube flat that morning.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Maya handled produce and dairy while Daniel went for rice, coffee, and canned tomatoes. They met near the meat counter, where they debated dinner.

“Tacos?” he suggested.

“We had tacos Wednesday.”

“That was four days ago.”

Maya laughed and put chicken thighs in the cart. Daniel added tortillas anyway.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap. Maya stayed with the cart while Daniel jogged back for it, returning with soap and a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels that had not been on the list.

Their final stop was the gas station. While Daniel filled the tank, Maya cleaned old receipts and empty coffee cups from the car. On the drive home, they discussed laundry, dinner, and whether they had enough energy to assemble the bookshelf waiting in their living room.

They carried the groceries inside together, each taking too many bags to avoid a second trip. One paper bag tore near the front steps, but Daniel caught the oranges before they rolled away. Maya unlocked the door, laughing, and they went inside to put everything away.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator. Daniel rinsed their coffee mugs and called out items as he checked the pantry.

“We’re almost out of rice,” he said.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Definitely coffee.”

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years. By ten, they were in Daniel’s hatchback, reusable bags piled in the back seat. Maya drove while Daniel entered their first stop into his phone.

At the pharmacy, Daniel picked up a prescription while Maya bought toothpaste and mailed a birthday card to her sister from the postal counter. Then they crossed the parking lot to the hardware store. A cabinet hinge had come loose that week, and Daniel held up two nearly identical packages while Maya compared them to a photo she had taken.

“The one on the left,” she decided. “The screw holes match.”

Their last stop was the supermarket. They divided the list without separating completely, moving together from produce to dairy. Maya chose apples and checked them for bruises. Daniel found the rice, then returned with a bag twice the size they needed.

“It was cheaper per pound,” he said.

“It always is,” she replied, smiling as she put it in the cart.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten onions. Daniel ran back while Maya unloaded the groceries and scanned their store coupon. Outside, they split the bags evenly and packed the car just as a light rain began.

On the way home, Maya stopped at a gas station, and Daniel cleaned the windshield while the tank filled. They discussed dinner and agreed on vegetable curry, since they now had enough rice to last several months.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the cold items while Daniel replaced the cabinet hinge. It closed without sagging.

“Productive morning,” he said.

Maya handed him the new coffee bag. “It will be, once you make a pot.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list beneath a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. She added coffee, circled dish soap, and called to Daniel, who was searching for his wallet in the bedroom.

“It’s by the front door,” she said.

He emerged a moment later, wallet in hand. “You know me too well.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and most weekends began with some version of the same routine. Daniel drove while Maya checked the list and mapped out their stops.

First, they went to the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps from the machine and replaced the peeling label on their mailbox key.

Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya wandered to the household aisle for batteries. At the register, she reminded him they needed quarters for the laundromat because their dryer had stopped heating properly.

Their final stop was the supermarket. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya compared prices on vegetables. He chose tomatoes, rejected an expensive bag of grapes, and disappeared briefly to find the coffee they both liked. Maya picked out chicken for dinner and grabbed a frozen pizza for the night they knew neither of them would feel like cooking.

At checkout, Daniel unloaded the cart while Maya organized the reusable bags. They split the bill through the payment app they used for shared expenses, then carried everything to the car as a light rain began.

Back home, they worked without discussing it. Daniel brought in the bags and put away the pantry items. Maya filled the refrigerator and set the chicken on the bottom shelf to thaw. When they finished, Daniel held up the new batteries.

“Smoke detector?” he asked.

“And then laundry,” Maya said.

He sighed theatrically, but she was already smiling. Their errands weren’t exciting, yet the small cooperation of them made the duplex feel more like home.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Arizona. She added coffee, then called toward the bedroom, “We’re out of dish soap, too.”

Ethan emerged carrying the laundry basket. “And detergent. Unless we want everything to smell like gym socks.”

They had lived together in a small Ohio duplex for almost two years, long enough to divide errands without discussing it much. Maya gathered reusable bags while Ethan loaded the laundry into the trunk. Their washing machine had broken on Thursday, and the landlord couldn’t send anyone until Monday.

First, they stopped at the post office. Ethan waited in line to mail a birthday package to his sister while Maya filled out a change-of-address card for a bill that kept going to her old apartment. Afterward, they drove to the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Ethan bought batteries for the smoke detector.

At the supermarket, they split the list. Maya chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken thighs. Ethan found coffee, detergent, and the particular brand of oatmeal they both liked. They met near the dairy case, where he had put an expensive wedge of cheese in the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“It’s for dinner.”

“Dinner was supposed to be tacos.”

“Fancy tacos.”

She laughed and left the cheese in the cart.

Their last stop was the laundromat. While the clothes tumbled, they sat in molded plastic chairs, drinking vending-machine coffee and reviewing the receipt. They had gone nine dollars over budget, mostly because of the cheese and a discounted houseplant Maya had added near the checkout.

“Fair trade,” Ethan said. “One unnecessary item each.”

Back home, they carried everything inside together. Maya put away the groceries while Ethan moved the damp laundry to drying racks. The new plant went on the kitchen windowsill.

By late afternoon, the errands were done. Ethan began chopping onions for the tacos, and Maya opened the cheese. Their ordinary Saturday had taken longer than planned, but the refrigerator was full, the laundry was clean, and neither of them had faced the lines alone.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to know that shopping without a plan usually meant buying snacks and forgetting toothpaste.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, moving a carton aside.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which explains the mood around here.”

They left just before ten, taking Maya’s hatchback because Daniel’s truck was low on gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Maya bought stamps from the kiosk and checked the tracking number on a return she had dropped off earlier that week.

Next they drove to the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel wandered to the household aisle for dishwasher tablets. He returned carrying those, plus a bag of sour gummy candy.

“That wasn’t on the list,” she said.

“It’s an errand fee,” he replied, dropping it into the basket.

At the grocery store, they divided the work without discussing it. Daniel chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Maya found yogurt, rice, and canned tomatoes. They met near the frozen foods, where they debated pizza brands before choosing the one on sale. At checkout, Daniel unloaded the cart, and Maya bagged the groceries, keeping the bread away from the heavier items.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield and emptied old receipts from the cup holder. By then, light rain had begun tapping against the roof.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the mail and started coffee. Their errands had taken less than two hours, and nothing remarkable had happened. Still, when Daniel opened the gummy candy and handed her the first piece, Maya smiled. The ordinary morning felt quietly shared, which was exactly what home had come to mean.


On Saturday morning, Lena stood at the kitchen counter, checking the refrigerator while Marcus added items to a grocery list on his phone. They had lived together in a small townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, and their weekend errands had settled into a familiar rhythm.

“We’re out of eggs,” Lena said.

“And coffee,” Marcus replied, holding up the nearly empty bag. “That seems more urgent.”

They left around ten, taking Lena’s car because Marcus’s needed gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Marcus mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Lena bought a sheet of stamps and checked the box they rented for important mail.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Lena picked up a prescription, and Marcus wandered two aisles over to find toothpaste and batteries. At the register, they realized neither had remembered the reusable shopping bags.

“They’re by the front door,” Marcus said.

“Where we put them so we wouldn’t forget,” Lena replied.

At the supermarket, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena read from the list. They compared prices on chicken, chose tomatoes that still needed a day to ripen, and debated whether they would actually eat an entire bag of spinach. Marcus added tortilla chips; Lena added salsa without comment.

Halfway through the store, they split up. Lena went for milk and yogurt while Marcus found rice, canned beans, and the coffee he had insisted was essential. They met near the frozen foods, each carrying more than planned.

After loading the groceries into the trunk, they stopped at a gas station. Lena filled the tank while Marcus went inside to buy windshield washer fluid. Back home, they carried everything in together, making two trips.

Marcus put away the pantry items as Lena arranged produce in the refrigerator. By noon, the errands were finished. They made sandwiches, sat at their small kitchen table, and agreed that next Saturday they would stay home—though both knew they probably wouldn’t.


On Saturday morning, Lena found Marcus in the kitchen shaking the last few drops from the milk carton into his coffee.

“That settles it,” she said, holding up the grocery list from the refrigerator. “We’re going out.”

They had lived together for three years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and errands had become a familiar weekend ritual. Marcus drove, while Lena checked the list and added items whenever she remembered them.

Their first stop was the bank. Lena deposited a check from a freelance project while Marcus used the ATM. Then they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy, where he picked up a prescription and she bought shampoo and a birthday card for her sister.

At the hardware store, they searched for a replacement air filter for the furnace. Marcus pulled one from the shelf, but Lena compared the number on her phone to the label.

“That’s the wrong size,” she said.

He looked again and laughed. “Good catch. I was about to make us come back next weekend.”

The grocery store was crowded with families and college students. Lena steered the cart through produce while Marcus chose apples and inspected avocados. They divided the list without discussing it: she gathered pasta, canned tomatoes, and coffee; he found chicken, yogurt, and the cereal they both liked. When Lena suggested frozen pizza, Marcus added two.

“For emergencies,” he said.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap. Marcus ran back for it while Lena unloaded the cart and arranged their coupons. They split the bill as they usually did, with Lena paying and Marcus transferring his half before they reached the car.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Lena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned the windshield, stretching to reach the middle.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Marcus changed the furnace filter, and Lena put away the groceries. By early afternoon, the errands were finished. They heated leftover soup for lunch and sat at the small kitchen table, pleased to have the rest of the weekend free.


Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Colorado, with Daniel’s handwriting squeezed beneath hers: coffee, dish soap, lightbulbs.

“Didn’t we just buy coffee?” she asked.

Daniel looked up from tying his shoes. “We bought coffee you didn’t like.”

“It tasted like burnt tires.”

“Exactly.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturday errands had developed their own rhythm. Maya drove because Daniel’s car was low on gas; Daniel navigated because Maya refused to use the map app for places she “already knew.”

Their first stop was the post office, where Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Maya filled out a change-of-address card for a medical bill that kept going to her old apartment. Next, they crossed the shopping center to the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel bought allergy tablets after sneezing twice near the greeting cards.

At the hardware store, they stood beneath a wall of lightbulbs, comparing wattage and color temperature.

“Soft white,” Maya said.

“Daylight,” Daniel argued. “The kitchen is a cave.”

They compromised on soft white for the bedroom and daylight for the kitchen.

By the time they reached the supermarket, the parking lot was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya checked items off the list. He chose tomatoes; she rejected two and kept four. She selected pasta, and he doubled back for Parmesan. In the freezer aisle, they debated frozen pizza, then bought one because neither wanted to cook that night.

At checkout, Maya remembered they needed cat litter. Daniel jogged back while she unloaded the cart and chatted with the cashier. He returned slightly out of breath, carrying the largest box available.

Back home, they made three trips from the car. Daniel replaced the kitchen bulb while Maya put away groceries. When the brighter light came on, she squinted at the counter.

“You were right,” she said. “It’s filthy.”

Daniel opened the frozen pizza. “Good thing we bought dinner.”


On Saturday morning, Lena found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Texas, where Marcus had left it after breakfast. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Lena checked the refrigerator while Marcus carried a basket of laundry upstairs and started a load.

By ten, they were in Lena’s hatchback. Marcus drove because she wanted to answer a message from her sister. Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to their niece while Marcus bought stamps and held their place in line. Afterward, they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy. Marcus picked up a prescription, and Lena remembered they needed toothpaste.

At the supermarket, they each took one side of the list. Marcus chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken thighs, while Lena found coffee, yogurt, and the cereal he liked. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get onions?” she asked.

“They weren’t on the list.”

“They’re always on the list.”

Marcus smiled and went back for them. Lena added a bag of frozen dumplings to the cart for nights when neither of them felt like cooking.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. While Marcus filled the tank, Lena cleaned fast-food receipts from the door pocket and bought them two bottles of water. Their final errand was the hardware store, where they debated paint samples for the small bedroom they used as an office. They settled on a muted green after Marcus held several cards against the window light.

Back at the duplex, Lena carried in the lighter bags and unlocked the door. Marcus followed with the groceries and a sack of potting soil they had not planned to buy. They put everything away together, then stood in the kitchen deciding what to make for lunch.

“Dumplings?” Marcus suggested.

Lena looked at the full refrigerator and laughed. “After all that?”

Still, she filled a pan with water while he opened the bag.


On Saturday morning, Lena found Marcus standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs.

“We’re officially out of breakfast,” he said.

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to develop a shared grocery list on the refrigerator and strong opinions about which store had the best produce. Lena added eggs to the list while Marcus checked the pantry for coffee and rice.

They left just before ten. Marcus drove, and Lena read the list from her phone, organizing it by aisle. Their first stop was the pharmacy, where Lena picked up a prescription and Marcus bought toothpaste. While they waited at the register, he remembered they needed stamps, so they added the post office to their route.

At the supermarket, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena compared prices on chicken. He chose apples and inspected each one with exaggerated seriousness. She laughed and slipped a bag of tortilla chips into the cart.

“Not on the list,” he said.

“Neither is the ice cream you’re about to suggest.”

He considered this, then turned toward the freezer aisle.

They divided the work without discussing it. Lena found vegetables and pasta; Marcus picked up milk, eggs, and coffee. At checkout, she used a coupon from the store app while he packed the reusable bags, keeping the bread away from the canned goods.

Afterward, they stopped at the post office, where Marcus mailed a birthday card to his mother. Their last errand was the hardware store for a new kitchen faucet aerator. Lena found the correct size after checking a photo she had taken that morning, and Marcus grabbed a small bag of potting soil for the basil plant on their windowsill.

Back home, they carried the groceries in together. Marcus put away the cold items while Lena sorted the pantry goods. By noon, the refrigerator was full, the errands were done, and they were eating sandwiches at the kitchen counter, debating whether replacing the faucet part counted as a project or merely maintenance.


On Saturday morning, Lena found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called toward the hallway, “We’re out of dish soap too.”

Marcus emerged carrying a basket of laundry. “And quarters. The machine downstairs ate my last ones.”

They had lived together in a small apartment outside Columbus for almost two years, long enough to develop a routine but not long enough to stop debating which errands belonged in what order. Lena wanted to start at the bank. Marcus argued for the post office before it closed at noon.

“The bank has an ATM,” he said.

“The post office has a line,” she replied.

They took Marcus’s car and reached the post office with twenty minutes to spare. While he mailed a birthday package to his niece in Arizona, Lena bought stamps and held their place in line. Next, they stopped at the pharmacy, where Lena picked up a prescription and Marcus compared prices on allergy medicine.

At the bank, Lena withdrew cash for the laundry machines while Marcus deposited a check from a freelance repair job. They split a blueberry muffin from the café next door, eating it in the car and brushing crumbs from their jeans.

Their last stop was the grocery store. Marcus pushed the cart while Lena read from the list. He chose tomatoes, testing each one gently, and she found a sale on chicken thighs. They disagreed briefly over cereal—Marcus wanted the expensive granola, Lena pointed to the store brand—then compromised by buying both and skipping the frozen pizza.

At checkout, Marcus bagged the groceries while Lena paid from their shared household account. On the drive home, they remembered the dish soap.

Marcus sighed and turned into a convenience store. Lena ran inside, returning with soap and two iced teas.

Back at the apartment, they carried everything up in two trips. Marcus started the laundry, and Lena put away the groceries. By early afternoon, the refrigerator was full, the package was mailed, and the weekend finally felt like it had begun.


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs.

“We’re officially out of breakfast,” he said.

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and had developed a loose system for errands: Maya kept a list on her phone, while Daniel remembered the things neither of them had written down. After coffee, they pulled on jackets and headed to the car.

Their first stop was the post office. Maya waited in line to mail a birthday package to her sister while Daniel filled out a change-of-address card for a former tenant whose mail still arrived at the duplex. Then they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy, where Daniel picked up a prescription and Maya bought toothpaste and allergy medicine.

At the grocery store, they divided the list without formally saying so. Maya chose vegetables, comparing bunches of cilantro and rejecting a bruised bell pepper. Daniel went to the dairy aisle for milk, eggs, and yogurt. They met near the pasta, where he held up two jars of sauce.

“This one’s cheaper,” he said.

“That one tastes like sugar.”

He put the cheaper jar back.

They added chicken, rice, coffee, and a frozen pizza for the night neither of them wanted to cook. At checkout, Maya unloaded the cart while Daniel bagged, placing the bread on top and the canned goods together. They split the bill through their shared household account.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Daniel filled the tank while Maya cleaned old receipts and two empty coffee cups from the car. Before leaving, they used the air pump to top off a low tire, taking turns crouching beside it in the cold.

Back at the duplex, each carried in two bags. Daniel put away the groceries while Maya started a load of laundry. By noon, the errands were done, and they stood in the kitchen making sandwiches, pleased by the ordinary efficiency of a life they had built together.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She read it aloud while Daniel rinsed their coffee mugs.

“Milk, rice, spinach, coffee, toothpaste,” she said. “And we need lightbulbs for the hallway.”

Daniel added cat litter to the bottom of the list. Their cat, Pepper, watched from the kitchen doorway as if supervising.

They had lived together for three years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. Most weekends included some version of this trip, but they still negotiated the details. Maya wanted to stop at the post office first, before the line grew. Daniel preferred starting at the supermarket, before the parking lot filled. They checked the time and compromised: post office, pharmacy, then groceries.

Maya drove while Daniel handled directions and changed the radio station whenever the signal faded. At the post office, she mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona while he bought stamps and held the door for a man carrying two large boxes.

Their next stop was the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on shampoo. They remembered the lightbulbs only after returning to the car, so Daniel went back inside while Maya answered a text from their landlord.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Maya chose produce and dairy while Daniel found pantry items and cat litter. They met near the frozen foods, where Daniel had added pizza to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither were those cookies.”

She looked at the package in her hand and nodded. “Fair.”

At checkout, they used a coupon Maya had saved and split the bill from their shared household account. Back home, Daniel carried in the heavy bags while Maya put away the cold items. They changed the hallway bulb together, one holding the step stool steady while the other reached up.

By early afternoon, the errands were done. They heated leftover soup, opened the cookies, and sat at the kitchen table while Pepper investigated the empty grocery bags.


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of milk.

“We’re officially out of everything,” he said.

Maya looked past him at half a lemon, a jar of mustard, and three eggs. “Make a list before we start pretending mustard is dinner.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and had developed a loose division of labor: Maya remembered what they needed; Daniel remembered where they had parked. While she checked the pantry, he added coffee, rice, and dish soap to the list on his phone.

They left just before ten. Daniel drove, and Maya navigated them first to the post office, where she mailed a birthday package to her sister. While she waited in line, Daniel used the self-service machine to buy stamps and dropped two utility payments into the outgoing-mail slot.

Their next stop was the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel found the allergy medicine he needed. They compared prices on toothpaste, rejected an expensive brand, and chose the store version.

At the supermarket, they split the list without separating. Daniel steered the cart while Maya selected produce, handing him tomatoes to inspect for bruises. He chose chicken thighs for Sunday dinner; she found a discounted bag of frozen vegetables. In the cereal aisle, they debated for a full minute before putting both of their favorites in the cart.

At checkout, Maya remembered they needed quarters for the duplex laundry machines. Daniel asked for change and packed the groceries while she paid from their shared household account.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield and threw away the coffee cups that had been rolling around the back seat.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel put away the cold items, Maya organized the pantry, and together they realized they had forgotten the milk.

After a moment, Maya laughed. Daniel grabbed his keys again. “Corner store?”

She picked up her jacket. “We’re going together.”