By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and laundry detergent. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly in the closet down the hall.

“Did you leave something in your jeans again?” she called.

Evan looked up from the stove, where he was stirring rice. “Probably a receipt.”

“That machine sounds like it’s washing a brick.”

He lowered the heat, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and went to investigate. Maya heard the closet door open, then the washer pause. A moment later, he returned holding two quarters and a small hex key.

“I don’t know where this came from,” he said.

“The junk drawer, originally.”

Their cat, Nelson, sat beside the refrigerator, staring at the cutting board with patient intensity. Maya dropped the pepper strips into a bowl and nudged him away with her foot.

“How was your meeting?” Evan asked.

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

“Productive.”

“And yours?”

“My boss used the phrase ‘circle back’ five times.”

They had planned tacos, but the tortillas in the refrigerator were spotted with mold. Evan held up the package, and they both frowned at it.

“Rice bowls?” he suggested.

“Rice bowls,” Maya agreed.

He opened a can of black beans while she seasoned the peppers and onions. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought—Maya stepping aside so Evan could reach the cumin, Evan moving the cat’s water dish before she tripped over it.

When the vegetables began to sizzle, Maya opened the window a crack. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner and someone rolled a trash bin down the alley.

They ate at the small table near the living room, bowls topped with salsa, shredded cheese, and the last half of an avocado.

“We need groceries,” Maya said.

Evan nodded. “And detergent.”

“And tortillas.”

He glanced toward the laundry closet, where the washer had resumed its steady rhythm. “And apparently a better system for emptying my pockets.”

Maya smiled and passed him the hot sauce.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring rice while trying to read a text from her sister.

The front door opened, followed by the scrape of Daniel’s shoes on the mat.

“Hey,” he called.

“In here. Can you check the chicken? I can’t remember when I put it in.”

Daniel set his backpack beside the coat rack and came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. He opened the oven and leaned back from the heat.

“It looks done.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

“Right.” He found the meat thermometer in the crowded utensil drawer, beneath two spatulas and a packet of takeout chopsticks. “One sixty-eight.”

“Then it’s definitely done.”

He took the pan out while Maya turned down the rice. Their cat, Olive, appeared from the hallway and sat hopefully between them.

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“This morning. Dinner is your department.”

Olive meowed as if confirming the arrangement.

Daniel filled her bowl, then started washing the cutting board and knife Maya had left in the sink. She carried the chicken to the small table by the window, moving a stack of mail onto an empty chair.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“Electric bill. Something from your dentist. Three ads for people who want to buy a house we don’t own.”

He laughed and brought over the rice. Outside, traffic moved slowly through the wet intersection. Someone downstairs was playing music, the bass soft through the floor.

They sat across from each other. Daniel took one bite and reached for the salt.

“Long day?” Maya asked.

“Mostly meetings about future meetings. You?”

“My printer jammed during the presentation.”

“Did you win?”

“I removed the paper without crying.”

He raised his glass. “A professional.”

She tapped hers against it. After dinner, they agreed, he would pack the leftovers and she would wipe the counters. Then they would watch one episode of something, though both knew they might fall asleep before the ending.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing rice in a metal strainer. Outside, the last school bus groaned down their Ohio street. Their cat, Pepper, sat beside the refrigerator, watching her as if dinner were already late.

Evan came in through the back door carrying a grocery bag and his bike helmet.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said.

“We’ll survive.”

“I got parsley.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I panicked.”

Maya laughed and moved aside so he could wash his hands. They had lived together for two years, long enough to navigate the small kitchen without much discussion. She started the rice cooker while Evan unpacked chicken thighs, a lime, and a six-pack of seltzer. He put the receipt under a magnet on the refrigerator, beside the electric bill and a wedding invitation from one of his college friends.

“Did you call the landlord?” Maya asked.

“About the bathroom fan? I emailed. He said he’ll send someone Thursday.”

“He said that last Thursday.”

Evan opened a seltzer and handed it to her before taking one for himself. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

They worked on tacos: Maya sliced an onion and warmed tortillas in a skillet while Evan seasoned the chicken. He dropped a piece of parsley on the floor, and Pepper pounced on it, then looked offended.

Maya told him about a meeting that should have been an email. Evan described a customer who had returned a perfectly good lamp because it was “too bright.” Their conversation drifted to whether they needed laundry detergent and whose turn it was to take the recycling out.

When the smoke alarm chirped from the browning chicken, Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

“Every time,” she said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s smoke.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, with hot sauce, lime wedges, and the unnecessary parsley between them. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya loaded the dishwasher. Nothing about the evening was special, but the house felt settled around them: dishes clinking, the furnace starting, Pepper waiting hopefully for something to fall.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice. Her boyfriend, Marcus, came in through the back door carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting everything on the counter. “I got parsley, but that feels dishonest.”

Lena laughed. “We’ll survive without either.”

They had lived together in the small rented duplex for almost two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them. Marcus emptied the dishwasher while Lena sliced a bell pepper and half an onion. The kitchen window had fogged slightly from the pot on the stove, and the ceiling fan clicked once every rotation.

“How was your meeting?” Marcus asked.

“Forty-five minutes that could’ve been an email.” She nudged the cutting board toward him. “Can you do the garlic?”

He peeled two cloves and minced them with more concentration than the task required. “My manager scheduled one of those for tomorrow.”

“Maybe it’s contagious.”

Their cat, Mabel, appeared at the sound of a can opening. Marcus tipped black beans into a strainer, then rinsed them while Mabel wound around his ankles.

“You already ate,” he told her.

“She disputes that,” Lena said.

They cooked the peppers and onions in a skillet, added beans, cumin, and the leftover chicken from Sunday. Marcus warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. One blistered too quickly and left a dark spot.

“That one’s yours,” Lena said.

“Chef’s portion.”

While the rice finished, she sorted the mail: electric bill, grocery coupons, a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. Marcus wiped the counter and filled two glasses with water.

They carried their plates to the small table by the living room. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Lena took a bite and nodded.

“Needs lime,” she said.

Marcus pointed toward the grocery bag. “For once, I remembered.”

She smiled, and he got up to fetch it.


Maya heard the garage door groan open while she was rinsing rice at the kitchen sink. A moment later, Daniel came in through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the blue ceramic bowl, and leaned against the counter to untie his shoes.

“How was traffic?” she asked.

“Slow by the bridge. How was your meeting?”

“Long. Nobody knew why we were there.”

He laughed, kissed her cheek, and opened the refrigerator. They had lived together for three years, long enough that dinner usually began without discussion. Maya measured water into the rice cooker while Daniel pulled out a package of chicken thighs and the half-used bag of green beans they had bought on Sunday.

“These still okay?” he asked, holding up the bag.

Maya inspected it. “Mostly. Toss the soft ones.”

Daniel trimmed the beans over the compost bin. Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, paprika, and the last of a jar of mustard. Their cat, Louise, appeared from the hallway and sat directly between them, hopeful and inconvenient.

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“This morning. She’s trying to renegotiate the schedule.”

While the chicken browned in the skillet, Daniel sorted the mail at the small dining table. He set aside a utility bill, recycled two flyers, and handed Maya an envelope from her dentist. She groaned and tucked it under the fruit bowl.

The rice cooker clicked. Maya lowered the heat under the chicken, and Daniel added the beans to another pan with garlic and a splash of water. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen—opening drawers, passing utensils, wiping up a streak of oil before someone stepped in it.

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

“If we eat before eight.”

They carried their plates to the table, leaving the pans to soak. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Daniel filled two glasses with water, and Maya nudged the unopened utility bill toward him.

“After dinner,” he said.

“Definitely after dinner,” she agreed.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Maya home on her coat. She hung it over the back of a kitchen chair instead of in the closet, then slipped off her shoes beside Daniel’s muddy sneakers.

“What’s the plan?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.

Daniel stood at the counter, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. “The plan was spaghetti. The problem is we’re almost out of spaghetti.”

Maya held up a half-empty box. “This is enough if we make a salad.”

“Do we have lettuce?”

They both looked toward the crisper drawer. Daniel opened it and found a bag of spinach, slightly wilted but usable, along with two carrots and half a red onion.

“Salad-adjacent,” he said.

While he filled a pot with water, Maya sorted through the spinach, dropping the worst leaves into the compost bin under the sink. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. When Daniel reached for the cutting board, Maya shifted aside. When she needed the olive oil, he handed it over before she asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” She began peeling a carrot over the trash. “How was your day?”

“Printer broke again. Carl tried to fix it with a paper clip.”

“Did it work?”

“It made a noise.”

The water began to boil. Daniel snapped the remaining spaghetti in half despite Maya’s usual objection, and she gave him a look.

“It fits better,” he said.

“It fits if you wait ten seconds.”

Their cat, Juniper, appeared when Daniel opened the sauce, winding between his ankles as if tomato basil might somehow become chicken. Maya set two bowls on the small table, moving a stack of mail to the windowsill. An electricity bill slid to the floor.

“We should pay that tonight,” she said.

“After dinner.”

They ate with the rain tapping against the glass. The salad was unevenly chopped, the spaghetti slightly overcooked, and the sauce needed salt. Still, Daniel went back for seconds. Maya reached across the table and brushed a spot of sauce from his sleeve.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“I’ll dry.”

Neither of them moved yet.


Maya heard the garage door rattling open while she was rinsing rice at the kitchen sink. A moment later, Ben came through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl, and leaned against the counter to untie his shoes.

“How was traffic?” she asked.

“Slow by the bridge. How was your meeting?”

“It could’ve been an email.”

Ben laughed and opened the refrigerator. Their dog, Pepper, appeared from the hallway at the sound. “We have half a bell pepper, three carrots, and something in foil.”

“The foil is cake. Don’t put it in dinner.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Maya gave him a look. They had lived together long enough that she remembered his experimental peanut-butter chili.

They settled on stir-fry. Ben sliced the carrots while Maya pressed water from a block of tofu. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the cycle she had started that morning. A grocery list was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from a roadside diner in Ohio.

“We’re out of soy sauce,” Ben said, tipping the bottle.

“There’s another one in the pantry, behind the cereal.”

He found it, along with a bag of cashews they had forgotten about. Maya heated oil in the skillet, and soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and ginger. Ben fed Pepper a tiny piece of carrot, then denied doing it when Maya turned around.

While the vegetables cooked, they compared schedules. Ben had to be downtown early Thursday. Maya reminded him that the landlord was sending someone to check the water heater Friday afternoon.

“Can you be here?” she asked.

“If they come after two.”

“They said between noon and five.”

“Of course they did.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using mismatched bowls. Outside, a neighbor dragged recycling bins to the curb. Ben reached for the last cashew, and Maya tapped his chopsticks away.

“Save it for lunch tomorrow.”

He split it in half instead. After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers while Ben loaded the dishwasher, rearranging the plates until everything fit.


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

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I checked the door.”

“The top shelf of the door.”

He found it behind a jar of mustard and held it up. “You hid it.”

“Clearly.”

They had lived together in the rented duplex for eleven months, long enough to know which cabinet stuck in damp weather and which burner ran too hot. Their mail was piled beside the fruit bowl: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Ben’s cousins. Neither had opened it yet.

Maya tipped the peppers into a skillet, where they hissed beside onions and strips of chicken. Ben measured rice into the small saucepan, then paused.

“Two cups?”

“One and a half. We still have leftovers from yesterday.”

He glanced at the glass container in the refrigerator. “That’s three bites of pasta.”

“Three bites you said you were saving.”

“For emotional support.”

Maya laughed and nudged him aside so she could reach the spice drawer. Ben filled the saucepan at the sink, stepping around the cat, who had appeared at the sound of the chicken package opening.

While the rice simmered, Ben cleared two laptops and a stack of library books from the dining table. Maya rinsed the cutting board and listened as he described a meeting that should have been an email. She told him about a customer who had called her three times to ask the same question.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Normal long.”

He set out mismatched bowls and poured water into two glasses. Maya added sauce to the skillet, tasted it, and handed him the spoon.

“Needs lime,” he said.

“We don’t have lime.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

They ate at the table with the cat circling their chairs. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Ben reached for the unopened wedding invitation, but Maya pointed at his bowl.

“Dinner first.”

He put it down. “Dinner first.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, slicing a red bell pepper. The dishwasher hummed beside her. On the counter, her phone played a public radio segment she wasn’t really listening to.

Evan came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said.

Maya looked up. “Again?”

“I bought parsley.”

“For tacos?”

He set the bag down. “It’s green.”

She laughed and nudged the cutting board toward him. “You can defend that decision while chopping the onion.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most tasks without discussing them. Maya cooked the chicken while Evan handled vegetables and warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner. He always left them too long, and she always rescued them with tongs.

On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from a vacation in Maine, their weekly calendar showed a dentist appointment, a trash reminder, and “Call landlord—bathroom fan.” Evan tapped the note.

“Did you call?”

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

“Might?”

“That’s what he said.”

Evan sighed, then opened the cabinet for plates. One was still damp from the dishwasher, so he dried it on his T-shirt.

“Use the towel,” Maya said.

“It’s already done.”

They carried everything to the small dining table near the window. Outside, a neighbor walked a beagle under the streetlights. A delivery van idled at the curb.

Halfway through dinner, Maya asked how Evan’s presentation had gone. He shrugged, then admitted his manager had liked it. She raised her water glass in a toast.

“To being secretly competent.”

“And to parsley tacos,” he said.

They ate the last two in comfortable silence. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers for lunch while Maya wiped the stove. Neither mentioned the laundry waiting on the couch until they walked into the living room and saw it.

“One episode while we fold?” he asked.

Maya picked up the remote. “Two, if you match the socks.”


Maya nudged the apartment door shut with her heel and set two grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Her keys landed in the ceramic bowl beside Daniel’s wallet.

“You’re home early,” he called from the hallway.

“By twelve minutes,” she said, taking out a carton of eggs. “Try not to be overwhelmed.”

Daniel appeared in socks and a faded university sweatshirt, carrying the laundry basket they had left on the bedroom floor that morning. He glanced into the bags. “I thought we were making tacos.”

“We are. The eggs are for breakfast. We were out.”

He nodded solemnly. “Crisis prevented.”

While Maya sliced a bell pepper, Daniel put the laundry away, returning with his sleeves pushed up. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had learned to move around each other without much thought. He reached past her for the skillet; she shifted toward the sink and handed him the oil.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. We spent forty minutes choosing a font.”

“Important work.”

“Democracy is exhausting.”

Daniel browned the ground turkey while Maya chopped cilantro and warmed tortillas over a burner. The vent fan rattled, as it always did. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from their trip to Chicago, the electric bill waited to be paid.

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

“I emailed. He said someone can come Thursday between eight and noon.”

She groaned. “That means noon-thirty.”

“I can work from home.”

“Your turn anyway.”

“Fair.”

They ate at the small table by the window, with the local news playing quietly from the living room. Daniel had forgotten sour cream, so they used plain yogurt. Maya said it tasted the same. Daniel said it absolutely did not, then added another spoonful.

After dinner, she packed the leftovers into containers for lunch while he washed the skillet. Outside, headlights moved along the wet street. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the laundry basket sat empty, and tomorrow’s coffee was already measured into the machine.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking in the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He found it behind a bottle of salad dressing and held it up. “You could have said behind the dressing.”

“I assumed you’d conduct a thorough investigation.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus was small enough that they could talk from almost anywhere without raising their voices. Daniel carried the soy sauce to the stove, stepping around the reusable grocery bags they had forgotten to put away. A pan of chicken hissed over medium heat.

Maya tipped the peppers onto the cutting board beside a pile of broccoli. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. Kevin shared his screen for twenty minutes before realizing we couldn’t see it.” Daniel stirred the chicken. “How was your day?”

“One kid threw up during reading group.”

“That’s worse.”

“Not for Kevin.”

They laughed, and Maya opened the dishwasher to find it still full of clean dishes. She began unloading while Daniel added vegetables to the pan. He asked whether they had any rice left, and she pointed to a plastic container on the second refrigerator shelf.

“Microwave or fresh?” he asked.

“Microwave. I’m hungry now.”

Their cat, Pickles, appeared at the sound of the container opening and sat expectantly near Daniel’s feet. He nudged her away from the stove with his sock.

While the rice heated, Maya sorted the mail: a credit card offer, a utility bill, and a flyer for a roofing company. She put the bill beside Daniel’s laptop.

“We should pay that tonight,” she said.

“After dinner.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Then definitely after dinner.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using mismatched bowls from their college apartments. Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Daniel reached for the hot sauce and asked what they should watch later.

“Something short,” Maya said. “I still have papers to grade.”

He nodded. “One episode.”

They both knew it might become two, but neither mentioned it.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and laundry detergent. Maya had started a load of towels before leaving for work that morning, and now they sat damp in the washer, forgotten until she came through the door.

“Please tell me you remembered them,” she called, dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entrance.

Evan looked up from the cutting board. “I remembered them at four. Then I forgot them again.”

Maya laughed and went straight to the laundry closet. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which chores required reminders and which required resignation. As she moved the towels to the dryer, Evan sliced bell peppers for fajitas. A skillet warmed on the stove, and a package of tortillas rested beside the microwave.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.” She shut the dryer door and pressed the button. “You?”

“The printer jammed twice, and Kevin brought leftover fish into the break room.”

“So, worse than mine.”

“Much worse.”

Maya washed her hands and began grating cheese. Evan added onions and peppers to the skillet, filling the small kitchen with a sharp, savory hiss. Their cat, Juniper, appeared from the hallway and sat beside the refrigerator, watching with professional interest.

“She already ate,” Maya said.

“She disputes that.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Maya opened the cabinet just as Evan reached for cumin; he stepped aside, then handed it to her instead. She set out two mismatched plates and checked the mail piled on the counter.

“Electric bill came,” she said.

“I’ll pay it tonight.”

“You said that about the internet bill.”

“I paid that.”

“After they emailed me.”

He smiled. “A successful reminder system.”

When the chicken was done, they carried everything to the small dining table by the window. Outside, traffic moved along the wet street, tires whispering over pavement. Maya folded a tortilla around peppers, chicken, and too much cheese.

“We need groceries tomorrow,” she said.

Evan nodded. “And detergent.”

“And cat food.”

From beneath the table, Juniper gave a short, timely meow.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the wet pavement outside. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing bell peppers while Daniel emptied the dishwasher, pausing every few seconds to inspect a container for leftover water.

“Top cabinet,” Maya said without looking up.

“I know where the containers go.”

“You’ve been holding that one for a full minute.”

Daniel slid it onto the shelf. “I was thinking.”

“About plastic storage?”

“About whether we have rice.”

They did not. Daniel checked the pantry twice, then added it to the grocery list on the refrigerator. Maya suggested couscous instead, and he found a half-full box behind the cereal.

Their townhouse was small enough that the kitchen opened directly into the living room. Daniel’s work bag still sat beside the couch, where he had dropped it after commuting home. Maya’s laptop was open on the dining table, its screen dimmed beside a stack of unopened mail.

Daniel set a skillet on the stove and poured in oil. “How was your meeting?”

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

Maya nudged the chopped peppers toward him with the flat of the knife. He tipped them into the pan, and they hissed. While he stirred, she opened a can of chickpeas and rinsed them in the sink.

They talked about the neighbor’s barking dog, a medical bill that still needed sorting out, and whether the bathroom faucet was dripping more than usual. Daniel said he would look at it Saturday. Maya reminded him they were visiting his sister Saturday.

“Sunday, then,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow but let it go.

When the couscous was ready, Maya fluffed it with a fork while Daniel added lemon juice and too much paprika to the skillet. They ate at the table, pushing the mail aside to make room for their bowls.

“This is good,” Maya said.

“Too smoky?”

“A little.”

Daniel nodded. “I’ll forget that next time.”

She smiled and reached across the table for his water glass because hers was still on the counter. Outside, tires whispered along the damp street, and the dishwasher, left open, waited behind them.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Her boyfriend, Eric, came in through the garage with a canvas grocery bag tucked against his hip.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter.

Maya looked inside. “These are fine.”

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

“Then we’ll call them bowls.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented townhouse outside Denver. The kitchen was narrow, with barely enough room for both of them, so they moved around each other by habit. Eric washed his hands while Maya slid a sheet pan into the oven to warm. He opened a package of chicken thighs and began trimming them at the cutting board.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed the website was confusing, but nobody agreed on how to fix it.” She shook water from the broccoli. “How was traffic?”

“Normal bad.”

The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the cycle they had started that morning. Maya opened it, took out two clean plates, and stacked them near the stove. Eric seasoned the chicken with cumin, salt, and too much smoked paprika. She noticed but said nothing.

While the chicken cooked, Maya sorted the mail at the small dining table: a utility bill, a coupon flyer, and a postcard reminding Eric about a dentist appointment. He leaned over her shoulder.

“I already rescheduled that.”

“You said that last time.”

“I actually did it this time.”

They ate at the table with the television off, filling tortillas with chicken, broccoli, and salsa. One tortilla split immediately, spilling onto Eric’s plate.

Maya pointed with her fork. “Bowl.”

He laughed and fetched a spoon. After dinner, he packed the leftovers while she wiped the counters. They debated whether to take a walk, looked at the dark windows, and decided instead to fold the laundry waiting on the couch.


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

Evan came in carrying two grocery bags and shook water from his jacket onto the mat.

“Please tell me you found cilantro,” Maya said.

He lifted one bag. “Cilantro, tortillas, and the expensive salsa you like.”

“The medium one?”

“The label says medium. Your definition may differ.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which disagreements were real and which were simply part of making dinner. Evan unpacked a can of black beans and a carton of eggs while Maya moved her laptop off the small dining table. A pile of unopened mail sat beside a bowl containing three keys, loose change, and a single dog biscuit, though they did not own a dog.

“Mrs. Alvarez’s terrier again?” Evan asked.

“He escaped in the hallway. I bribed him.”

Evan rinsed the cilantro, then began warming tortillas in a skillet. Maya stirred peppers and onions in another pan, nudging them aside so he could reach the salt. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had developed a quiet choreography: turn sideways, open the refrigerator carefully, announce anything hot.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

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

“Productive.”

“How was the dentist?”

“No cavities. Apparently I should floss like it’s my job.”

They scrambled eggs into the vegetables and added beans, making breakfast tacos because neither had planned anything else. Evan set out mismatched plates while Maya filled two glasses from the water filter.

At the table, rainwater slid down the window in crooked lines. Evan took one bite and reached for the salsa.

“Medium?” Maya asked.

He coughed, eyes watering. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed and passed him her water. The dishwasher hummed behind them, and somewhere upstairs a vacuum started. It was an ordinary Tuesday, with laundry still waiting in the bedroom and work emails unanswered, but dinner was warm, and they were home.


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

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting the sack on the counter. “I got the other kind.”

Maya examined the package. “These are fine. Did you remember limes?”

Ethan pulled two from the bag with a small flourish.

They had lived together in the rented townhouse for nearly two years, long enough for their routines to overlap without much discussion. Maya chopped the broccoli while Ethan started rice in the dented saucepan they kept meaning to replace. The dishwasher hummed beside them, full from the night before because neither had remembered to run it until breakfast.

“How was the meeting?” Ethan asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.” She slid the vegetables into a bowl. “How was traffic?”

“Accident near the exit. I listened to half a podcast about municipal water systems.”

“Exciting.”

“More interesting than you’d think.”

They made tacos from leftover chicken, warming it in a skillet with onions and cumin. Ethan grated cheese while Maya cleared a stack of mail from the small kitchen table—an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of his cousins. She placed the invitation on the refrigerator under a magnet shaped like Ohio.

“We should RSVP,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“That’s what we said yesterday.”

He reached for his phone, and they decided on the chicken option for both of them.

When dinner was ready, Maya carried the plates to the table while Ethan filled two glasses with tap water and squeezed lime into each. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk. Upstairs, the dryer buzzed.

“I’ll switch the laundry after we eat,” Ethan said.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He smiled and handed her a tortilla. “Then prepare to be impressed.”

They sat down together, tired but comfortable, as the kitchen slowly filled with the smell of toasted corn and cumin.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, slicing a bell pepper. The apartment windows were cracked open, letting in traffic noise and the smell of someone’s laundry detergent from the dryer vent below.

Evan came in carrying the mail and set it on the counter beside her.

“Anything good?” Maya asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to a person who hasn’t lived here in four years.”

He opened the refrigerator and stared into it.

“The chicken’s on the second shelf,” she said.

“I was looking for the mustard.”

“Door, behind the hot sauce.”

They had lived together long enough for Maya to know where Evan had misplaced things, and for Evan to know she would use every cutting board while making one dinner. He found the mustard, then took the chicken from the fridge and began mixing a quick marinade in a chipped blue bowl.

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only seven?”

“I counted.”

Evan laughed and carried the bowl to the stove. While the skillet heated, Maya swept pepper seeds into her palm and dropped them into the trash. Their cat, June, appeared at the sound of the chicken package and sat expectantly between them.

“You already ate,” Evan told her.

June blinked.

Maya started rice, then leaned against the counter and checked the weather on her phone. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Can you bring the patio cushions in?”

“After dinner.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll actually do it today.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen: Evan turning the chicken, Maya washing the knife and setting two plates on the small table. She added the peppers to the pan, and steam fogged the window over the sink.

When everything was ready, Evan filled their water glasses while Maya divided the rice. They sat beneath the crooked pendant light, with the unopened mail still on the counter and June waiting nearby for something to fall.

“Not bad for a Tuesday,” Evan said.

Maya tasted the chicken. “Needs salt.”

He passed it to her without argument.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. Rain tapped against the window over the sink. On the counter, her laptop was still open to a spreadsheet she had promised herself she wouldn’t check again.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and their mail. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting everything beside the fruit bowl. “So I got the ones that taste like envelopes.”

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

He pulled two from the bag with a small flourish.

They had lived together for three years, long enough to move around each other without asking. Evan put rice on the stove while Maya cut the broccoli and a red pepper. He opened the dishwasher, found it clean, and sighed.

“I forgot to run it last night,” Maya said.

“No, I forgot. You loaded it.”

“That sounds suspiciously generous.”

Evan began putting away plates while the rice simmered. Maya heated oil in their scratched skillet and added the vegetables. The smoke detector chirped once, offended but not committed. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Anything interesting in the mail?” she asked.

“Electric bill. Coupon for gutters. Wedding invitation from Nate.”

Maya glanced over. “Another barn?”

“Looks like a vineyard.”

“Close enough.”

He smiled and sliced a lime. They had discussed marriage in the vague, practical way they discussed replacing the couch—something they both expected eventually, though neither felt hurried.

When the vegetables softened, Evan warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, burning one edge. Maya added leftover chicken and found the hot sauce behind three jars of mustard.

They ate at the small table near the window. Rainwater shone on the street, and someone across the road dragged a recycling bin to the curb.

“Trash night,” Evan said.

“I cooked.”

“I know.” He took another taco. “I’m going.”

Maya reached across the table and brushed a grain of rice from his sleeve. “After dinner.”

“After dinner,” he agreed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. Outside, rain darkened the street and ticked against the window over the sink. Their dog, Benny, waited hopefully beneath the cutting board.

“Did you feed him?” she called.

Evan came in from the hallway carrying the mail and his laptop bag. “At five-thirty. He’s trying to create doubt.”

Benny wagged his tail.

“Very convincing doubt,” Maya said.

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop disagreeing about where the good scissors belonged. Evan set the mail beside the fruit bowl, washed his hands, and opened the refrigerator.

“Chicken tacos?” he asked.

“That was the plan, but the avocados are basically rocks.”

He squeezed one anyway. “We can do rice bowls. Chicken, peppers, salsa.”

Maya handed him an onion. “You chop. I cried enough at work today.”

“Bad meeting?”

“Just three meetings that should’ve been emails.”

While Evan diced the onion, Maya sliced peppers and warmed oil in their scratched blue skillet. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, trading utensils, nudging the dishwasher closed with a knee. Evan told her the office printer had jammed again. Maya reminded him that the electric bill was due Friday.

“I’ll pay it after dinner,” he said. “Unless you already did.”

“I did.”

“Then I’ll clean the bathroom.”

“That’s a fair exchange only in your imagination.”

The onion hissed when it hit the pan. Evan opened a can of black beans, rinsed them, and scattered some shredded cheese into a bowl. Maya tasted the rice and added salt.

They ate at the small table by the window, with Benny lying between their chairs. The rain had softened. Evan reached for the salsa and asked what they should watch later.

“Something where nobody has a job,” Maya said.

He nodded. “Fantasy, then.”

She laughed, and he passed her the salsa.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Maya home. She left her damp shoes on the mat, hung her jacket over a chair, and found Daniel standing at the kitchen counter, reading the back of a rice package.

“Did you just get here?” she asked.

“Ten minutes ago. I’m trying to remember whether we bought the quick kind.”

Maya looked over his shoulder. “That says forty-five minutes.”

“So, no.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which cabinet door stuck in humid weather and whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher, but not long enough to stop negotiating dinner. Daniel opened the refrigerator while Maya changed out of her work clothes. When she returned in sweatpants, he had arranged their options on the counter: half a rotisserie chicken, broccoli, two carrots, and a container of rice from Sunday.

“Fried rice?” he suggested.

“Perfect.”

Maya chopped the vegetables while Daniel pulled meat from the chicken. They talked about their days in pieces. Her supervisor had moved a deadline up. His bus had stalled three stops from the office. Their landlord had emailed about testing the smoke detectors on Saturday.

“Morning or afternoon?” Maya asked.

“Just says between nine and one.”

She sighed. “There goes sleeping in.”

Daniel heated oil in their largest skillet. It leaned slightly on the burner, so he held the handle while Maya tipped in the carrots and broccoli. The pan hissed. She added rice, and he found the soy sauce behind a jar of mustard.

While the food cooked, Maya fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. Daniel cleared unopened mail from the small table and set out two mismatched bowls.

They ate by the window, watching headlights smear across the wet street below. The fried rice was a little too salty, but neither mentioned it. Afterward, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. She wrote his name on one container, though they both knew he would take whichever one was closest to the door.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper. A moment later, Daniel came in carrying his laptop bag and the mail.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to the previous owner.” He set the stack beside the fruit bowl, then loosened his tie. “How was your day?”

“Three meetings that could’ve been emails.” Maya nodded toward the refrigerator. “Can you get the chicken out? I forgot to do it earlier.”

Daniel washed his hands, found the container of marinated chicken, and set it by the stove. Their house was small—a two-bedroom ranch they had been renting for nearly a year—but the kitchen had enough room for both of them if they moved carefully.

“Rice?” he asked.

“Please. And check whether the dishwasher’s clean.”

It was. Daniel unloaded plates while the rice cooker clicked on. Maya heated a skillet, and soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and soy sauce. He opened the back door for a minute after the smoke alarm gave a warning chirp.

“You said you were going to replace that battery,” Maya said.

“I did replace it. It’s just dramatic.”

She laughed and handed him the wooden spoon. “Stir these.”

While Daniel cooked the vegetables, Maya fed their cat, who had been circling their ankles with increasing urgency. They talked about a coworker’s retirement party, whether they needed more laundry detergent, and the neighbor’s recycling bin, which had blown into their driveway again.

Daniel tasted the sauce. “Needs something.”

“Lime.”

They didn’t have one, so he added a little rice vinegar instead. Maya set out two mismatched bowls and filled water glasses from the refrigerator dispenser.

By seven, they were sitting at the narrow table beneath the window. Daniel took one bite and nodded.

“Good substitute,” he said.

Maya glanced at the dishes waiting in the sink. “You’re still cleaning up.”

“Fair,” he said, reaching for another spoonful.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through a bag of green beans. Her boyfriend, Marcus, came in from the garage carrying his laptop bag and the mail.

“Anything good?” she asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to ‘Current Resident.’ So, basically, no.”

He dropped the envelopes beside the fruit bowl and kissed her cheek. They had lived in the small Ohio townhouse for two years, long enough that their routines overlapped without much discussion. Lena snapped the ends off the beans while Marcus washed his hands and opened the refrigerator.

“Chicken?” he asked.

“Top shelf. I thought we could roast it.”

Marcus pulled out the package, then paused. “Did we use the last of the olive oil?”

“There’s another bottle behind the cereal.”

“Of course there is.”

Lena smiled. Marcus complained about her habit of storing pantry items wherever they fit, but he always found them eventually. He seasoned the chicken over the sink while she put the beans in a skillet with garlic. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full from the night before.

“How was your meeting?” Marcus asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

“And your day?”

“Caleb called in sick, so I covered his afternoon appointments.” He slid the pan into the oven. “I’m not answering my phone tonight.”

While dinner cooked, Lena wiped the counter and Marcus emptied the dishwasher, putting two bowls in the wrong cabinet. She moved them without comment. He noticed anyway.

“I’ll learn someday,” he said.

“You’ve only lived here since 2022.”

They ate at the narrow table near the sliding door, with the television murmuring from the living room. Halfway through dinner, Marcus remembered the trash needed to go out. Lena reminded him that the recycling did too.

Afterward, she packed leftovers for their lunches while he carried both bins to the curb. When he came back, the porch light caught him checking whether he had locked his car. Lena watched through the window, amused by the familiar gesture, then turned on the kettle for tea.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse still held the day’s stale warmth, so she cracked the window above the sink. Outside, a neighbor dragged a recycling bin toward the curb.

Marcus came in from the garage carrying a paper grocery bag and his laptop case. He set both down and kissed her cheek.

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

“The flour ones?”

“The flour ones you like. I got corn.”

Lena looked at the bag. “We’ll survive.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough for dinner to follow familiar patterns. Marcus unpacked chicken thighs, limes, and a bunch of cilantro while Lena cleared two unopened envelopes and a phone charger from the counter. The dishwasher was clean but still full, so Marcus emptied it as the skillet heated.

“How was the meeting?” he asked, stacking bowls in the cabinet.

“Forty-five minutes of people agreeing to schedule another meeting.” She shook water from the broccoli. “How was traffic?”

“Someone lost a mattress on the highway.”

“Again?”

“Different mattress, probably.”

He seasoned the chicken while she chopped an onion. When her eyes began watering, Marcus turned on the vent fan, though it rattled loudly enough that they had to raise their voices. Lena put rice in the microwave and checked the calendar on the refrigerator.

“Your dentist is Thursday,” she called.

“I know.”

“You said that last time.”

“I know more convincingly now.”

They ate at the small table by the window, using the last of the hot sauce and talking about whether they could postpone mowing the lawn until Saturday. Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers into glass containers while Marcus washed the skillet by hand. He left it drying beside the sink, and she wiped the stove.

Nothing about the evening felt memorable. The laundry still needed folding, and both of them had emails waiting. But when Marcus handed Lena a dish towel without being asked, she took it, smiling, and bumped her shoulder against his.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and rain. Water ticked against the kitchen window while Maya stood at the counter, slicing a bell pepper into uneven strips. She still wore her office badge, though she had kicked off her shoes by the front door.

Evan came in carrying a canvas grocery bag and shook droplets from his jacket.

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

Maya glanced at the package he set down. “Those are fine.”

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

“Only because you overfill them.”

He opened the refrigerator and found the container of leftover rice behind a jar of pickles. Their cat, Louie, appeared at the sound of the door and stared hopefully into the lower shelves.

“There’s nothing for you,” Evan told him.

Maya slid the peppers into the skillet with the onions. They hissed, and she turned on the vent fan. “Can you rinse the beans?”

“Already on it.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. Evan drained the beans in the colander, then wiped up the water he splashed near the sink. Maya added cumin, tasted the vegetables, and reached past him for the salt.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Priya said ‘circle back’ six times.”

“Only six?”

She laughed. “How was your day?”

“Ordinary. The printer jammed. Kyle blamed humidity.”

Evan warmed the tortillas one at a time over the gas burner, watching their edges blister. Maya set two chipped plates on the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. She moved the mail to the windowsill and filled their water glasses.

When everything was ready, they assembled their tacos at the counter. One tortilla tore under Evan’s first scoop of rice.

Maya raised an eyebrow.

“Defective tortilla,” he said.

“Obviously.”

They carried their plates to the table. Louie settled between their chairs, and outside, a bus sighed to a stop at the corner. Evan reached for the hot sauce while Maya began telling him about the email she had almost sent to the wrong department, and dinner slipped into the familiar rhythm of their evening.


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

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“You moved the milk two inches.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll email the landlord tonight.”

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

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

He laughed. “Productive.”

“And your day?”

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

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

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

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

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

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

“Two episodes,” he negotiated.

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

“Deal.”

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


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

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

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

“Fair.”

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

“Still good,” he announced.

“I bought it Sunday.”

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

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

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

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

“Every time,” Maya said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s greasy.”

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

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


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

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

“You remembered the rice?” Maya asked.

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

“The lime one?”

He checked the label. “Grapefruit.”

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

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

“Did the electric bill come?” he asked.

“Yesterday. It’s on the fridge.”

“Bad?”

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

“That’s mostly you.”

“That is absolutely you.”

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

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

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

“Want to watch one episode?” she asked.

“One,” he said.

They both knew it would probably be two.


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

“Did you get rice?” she called.

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

“We have maybe three tablespoons.”

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

“Not with stir-fry.”

“People eat quinoa with everything.”

“People on wellness blogs do.”

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

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

“Bad?” Maya asked.

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

“That’s your light.”

“It’s our light. We share a hallway.”

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

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

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

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

“I figured.”

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

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

“Sunday?” he asked.

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

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


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

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

“The ones you bought look fine.”

“They’re suspiciously firm.”

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

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

“How was the meeting?” Evan asked.

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

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

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

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

“The Thai or the pasta?”

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

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

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

“Every time,” he said.

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


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

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking in the door.”

“The top shelf.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fed her, right?” Daniel asked.

“I thought you did.”

They looked down. Juniper blinked.

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

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

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


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

“Did you get tortillas?” Maya called.

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

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

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

“It’s raining.”

“I own a jacket.”

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

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

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

“Put them in the blue bowl.”

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

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

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

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

“Saturday?” Daniel asked.

“Saturday,” Maya agreed.

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


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

“Long day?” she asked.

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

“Fajitas. Can you do the onions?”

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

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

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

“Good. It sounds like a lawn mower.”

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

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

“Probably the new rate notice.”

He frowned at the envelope. “Romantic.”

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

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

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

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

“If we clean up first.”

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

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


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

Evan came in carrying a damp grocery bag.

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

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

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

“You feed him?” Evan asked.

“I thought you did this morning.”

“I did this morning.”

“Then no.”

Nelson meowed as if presenting evidence.

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

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only four?”

“She may be losing her edge.”

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

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

“We should deal with that,” Maya said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Definitely tomorrow.”

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

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


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

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

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

“That’s fine. Did you get soy sauce?”

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

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

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

“Indoor humidity?” Evan asked.

“Apparently it’s very aggressive.”

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

“We should check the thermostat,” he said.

“After dinner.”

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

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

“Anything good on tonight?” Evan asked.

“Probably not.”

“Perfect.”

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


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

“Did we use the last lime?” he asked.

“You used it in those drinks on Sunday.”

“They were good drinks.”

“They were mostly lime.”

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

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

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

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

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

“Actually fixed.”

“Then your day was more productive than mine.”

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

“I’ll unload,” she said.

“You’re cooking.”

“We’re both cooking.”

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

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

“Yes. He’s running a scam.”

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

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

“I’ll do it at lunch.”

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


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

“Anything important?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“How was your meeting?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Are we finally getting rid of this?”

“No. That’s my favorite.”

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

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

“After dinner,” he said.

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


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

“Those are getting bigger,” she said.

“They’re rustic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then we both forgot them.”

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

“Anything interesting happen today?” Daniel asked.

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

“Three meetings about having fewer meetings.”

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

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


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

“Those are getting bigger,” she said.

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re half a pepper.”

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

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

“How was the meeting?” Maya asked.

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

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

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

“Later,” they said together.

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

“Rent went through,” Daniel said.

“I saw. I’ll send my half tonight.”

“No rush.”

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

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

“Laundry after dinner?” he asked.

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

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


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

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

Maya glanced over. “A bold choice.”

“It was that or the spinach kind.”

“You chose correctly.”

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

“How was the meeting?” Daniel asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“Productive.”

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

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

“Due Friday.”

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

“I reminded you just now.”

“Remind future me.”

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

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

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

“It has salt.”

He tasted another. “Needs more salt.”

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

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

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

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

Daniel nodded solemnly. “An ordinary Tuesday.”

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


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

“Ten minutes,” she called.

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

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

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

“Pan or oven?”

“Pan. The oven needs cleaning.”

“The oven has needed cleaning since February.”

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

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

“You fed her, right?” Marcus asked.

“This morning.”

“I mean tonight.”

Lena paused. “I thought you did.”

Miso gave a small, timely meow.

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

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

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

“I’ll wash,” Marcus said.

“I’ll dry.”

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


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

“Long day?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“Did you pay that?” Daniel asked.

“Not yet. I’ll do it after we eat.”

“I can do it now.”

“You don’t know the password.”

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

Maya laughed. “That narrows it down.”

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

“Battery,” Daniel said.

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

“And yet neither of us has changed it.”

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

“Tomorrow,” Maya said.

“Absolutely tomorrow.”

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

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“Maybe one episode of something.”

“Two episodes?”

“We’ll see.”

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


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

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

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

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

“So, a plan with low confidence.”

“A plan with vegetables.”

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

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

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

“Productive.”

“How was your day?”

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

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

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

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

“This is actually good.”

“It’s broccoli.”

“Still. Credit where it’s due.”

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


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

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

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

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

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

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

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

“The paper had it coming.”

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

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

“Laundry,” Maya said, sitting down.

“After dinner,” he promised.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I mean it more today.”

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


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

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

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

“The ones we always buy?”

“Apparently everyone in Ohio wanted tacos tonight.”

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

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

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

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

“That was meal prep.”

“That was six servings eaten in two days.”

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

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

Pickles meowed anyway.

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under the table, Pickles settled across both their feet.


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

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

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

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

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

“So are we.”

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

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

“Lunches tomorrow?” Evan asked.

“If there’s enough.”

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

“I had yogurt for lunch.”

He nodded solemnly. “Three tacos approved.”

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

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

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

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

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


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

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

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

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

“We’re out of cheddar,” Daniel said.

“There’s Monterey Jack behind the yogurt.”

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

“Did the electric bill come?” Maya asked.

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

“You said that yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

“You’d think.”

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

“Anything good happen today?” Daniel asked.

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

“Wow.”

“And you?”

“I remembered to buy cat food.”

She lifted her glass. “Successful adults.”

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


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

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

“Anything important?” Mara asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re out of cumin,” she said.

“Use chili powder?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s Tuesday. Tuesday won’t know.”

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

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

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

“Still better than takeout,” Eli said.

Mara took another bite. “And cheaper.”

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


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

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

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

Maya lowered the packet. “So, no.”

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

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

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Only seven?”

“I counted.”

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

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

“You fed her, right?” Maya asked.

“At five-thirty.”

“She says you didn’t.”

“She’s not a reliable witness.”

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

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