By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the faintly scorched dust from the radiator. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Ben crouched beside the oven, trying to read the faded temperature dial.

“Four hundred is somewhere near the scratch,” he said.

“The scratch you made last Thanksgiving?”

“The very one.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, which felt ambitious in their one-bedroom apartment. Ben had borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs. Maya had spent the afternoon clearing unopened mail from the table and hiding a laundry basket in the bedroom.

Ben slid a pan of chicken and potatoes into the oven. Maya tasted the salad dressing, frowned, and added honey. They moved around each other with practiced adjustments: a hand at the waist, a quiet “behind you,” a cabinet closed before someone bumped into it.

At six fifteen, the buzzer rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wrong closet and discovered the vacuum balanced against a stack of board games.

Dinner was nearly ready when the smoke alarm began chirping. Ben waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the kitchen window. Cold November air swept through the room.

“Atmosphere,” she told their guests.

They ate at the small table, with two people seated on folding chairs and one using Ben’s desk chair. The chicken was a little dry, but the potatoes were crisp. Conversation moved from a coworker’s strange email to rent increases to a proposed summer camping trip no one was likely to organize.

After dessert, Ben made coffee while Maya divided the leftover cake into uneven slices. Their friends lingered until almost eleven.

When the door finally closed, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Ben began stacking plates. Maya filled the sink with hot water.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crowded counter and the empty wine bottles.

“Definitely,” she said. “Next time, takeout.”

He handed her a plate to wash. “Agreed.”

Neither of them mentioned that they were already discussing who to invite.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Nora stood at the counter slicing mushrooms while Daniel crouched in front of the open oven, trying to understand why the pilot light had gone out again.

“Did you turn the knob all the way?” she asked.

“I’m thirty-four,” he said. “I know how knobs work.”

Nora slid the mushrooms into a bowl. “That wasn’t my question.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first gathering since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Daniel had spent the morning tightening its legs. Nora had washed mismatched wineglasses and hidden a stack of unopened mail in the bedroom.

At five-thirty, the oven finally lit. Daniel put in the chicken while Nora stirred risotto on the stove. They moved around each other carefully, trading the wooden spoon, opening drawers, bumping hips once and apologizing at the same time.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and introduced Priya, his coworker, to Marcus and Ellen, who lived upstairs. Nora checked the chicken twice, then asked everyone to sit.

The risotto was slightly thick, and one chicken thigh was pink near the bone. Daniel quietly returned it to the oven while Nora passed salad and kept the conversation going. Someone spilled water. Marcus fetched a towel without being asked.

By dessert, everyone had relaxed. They ate lemon bars from the bakery box and argued cheerfully about the best grocery store in the neighborhood. Nora caught Daniel looking at the crowded table with a small, satisfied smile.

After the guests left, they stood in the kitchen among plates and half-empty glasses.

“That went well,” Daniel said, filling the sink.

Nora scraped risotto into a container. “Except for the raw chicken.”

“It was one piece.”

“And the oven?”

“Temporary setback.”

She laughed and handed him a plate to wash. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, they cleaned until the table was bare again.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the chocolate cake cooling beside the sink. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel leaned into the refrigerator, rearranging bottles to make room for a pitcher of iced tea.

“Did you buy sparkling water?” she asked.

He froze, then shut the refrigerator. “I bought still water with an optimistic label.”

Maya laughed. “That’ll do.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Baltimore, but this was the first dinner they had hosted since moving in. Four friends were coming. Daniel set the table with mismatched plates while Maya tasted the lentil soup and added salt. When he noticed one chair wobbling, he folded a takeout menu and slid it under the short leg.

At six, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full of camping gear and a vacuum cleaner neither Maya nor Daniel liked using.

The evening settled into a comfortable rhythm. Daniel poured drinks and passed around roasted vegetables. Maya brought out the soup, only to discover she had forgotten the serving ladle. She used a measuring cup instead.

“No one saw that,” Daniel said.

“Everyone saw that,” their friend Tessa replied.

During dinner, they talked about a new supervisor at work, rising rent, and whether anyone actually enjoyed running. Daniel burned the first batch of garlic bread while listening to a story, but he scraped off the darkest edges and served it anyway.

Later, Maya cut the cake while Daniel made coffee. Someone put on music from a phone, and the conversation drifted toward old vacations and embarrassing college jobs.

By eleven, the guests had gone. The apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses. Maya filled the sink while Daniel wrapped leftover cake.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crooked table, the empty bowls, and the parsley scattered across the floor.

“Successful enough.”

He handed her a dish towel, and together they began cleaning.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of garlic and onions. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the clock above the sink. Their friends were due at seven.

“Can you taste this?” she asked.

Eli set down the stack of plates he had been carrying and took the spoon. “Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

She added a pinch while he returned to the dining nook. Their table technically seated four, but six people were coming, so Eli unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor. One wobbled. He fixed it with a folded piece of cardboard, then covered the mismatched table with a clean blue sheet because they did not own a tablecloth.

Maya shaped meatballs and arranged them on a baking tray. Eli sliced bread, burned the first batch under the broiler, and opened the kitchen window before the smoke alarm could complain.

“At least we have extra,” he said, scraping blackened pieces into the trash.

At seven fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed because the front closet was full of camping gear and a vacuum cleaner.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Maya passed bowls of pasta while Eli kept water glasses filled. Someone knocked a fork onto the floor. The repaired chair held. When the conversation turned to rent increases, everyone groaned and compared landlords.

After dessert, their friends helped carry dishes to the kitchen, though Maya insisted they leave the washing. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Eli tied up the trash while Maya packed leftovers into plastic containers. They worked without discussing it, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the leaning tower of dirty plates. “Ask me after we clean.”

He handed her a dish towel. She smiled, turned on the faucet, and made room beside her.


Maya rinsed a bunch of parsley while Ben stood at the stove, stirring onions into a pot of lentils. Their apartment smelled of cumin and the lemon cleaner he had used on the counters that morning.

“Did you get ice?” Maya asked.

Ben stopped stirring. “I got wine.”

“So no ice.”

“I can go.”

She looked at the clock above the sink. Their friends were due in twenty minutes. “Use the tray in the freezer. We’ll survive.”

They had invited only four people, but the dining table barely seated six. Maya cleared a stack of mail from one chair while Ben unfolded the table’s extra leaf. It stuck halfway, as usual. They pulled from opposite ends until it slid into place with a sharp clack.

At six-thirty, the buzzer sounded. Lena and Marcus arrived first, carrying flowers and a paper bag of rolls. Behind them came Priya and Sam, who had brought a berry pie. Ben took coats to the bedroom while Maya found a jar for the flowers.

Dinner was informal. They passed bowls hand to hand: lentils, roasted carrots, salad, and rice. Ben apologized for the rice being slightly overcooked. Priya said it was perfect for soaking up the lentils, and everyone took seconds.

Halfway through the meal, Maya noticed water spreading beneath the salad bowl. A crack had opened along the bottom. She lifted it quickly while Ben grabbed a dish towel. Marcus rescued the tablecloth, and Lena transferred the salad into a mixing bowl. For a minute, everyone was laughing and moving at once.

After pie, they carried their glasses to the living room. Music played quietly from Ben’s old speaker. Conversation wandered from rent increases to a recent hiking trip, then to a neighbor’s noisy parrot.

When the last guests left, Maya locked the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” Ben said, surveying the dishes.

“The table survived.”

“The salad bowl didn’t.”

They worked side by side at the sink, Ben washing and Maya drying. Near midnight, they folded the damp tablecloth over a chair and ate the final slice of pie directly from the pan.


By five thirty, Maya had cleared the mail from the dining table and hidden a stack of unopened envelopes in the bedroom. In the kitchen, her boyfriend, Daniel, stood over a cutting board, slicing bell peppers into uneven strips.

“They don’t have to match,” he said when he caught her watching.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made the face.”

Maya smiled and opened a bottle of wine. They had invited four friends to their apartment in Columbus, the first dinner they had hosted since moving in together six months earlier. The menu was simple: roast chicken, potatoes, salad, and the apple crisp Daniel’s mother had taught him to make.

While Daniel seasoned the chicken, Maya set out mismatched plates and folded paper napkins beside them. One chair wobbled, so she crouched to slide a piece of cardboard under its shortest leg. Daniel carried in a bowl of salad, bumped the doorframe with his elbow, and nearly dropped it.

At six fifteen, the chicken was still pale.

“At least everyone will be late,” Maya said.

The doorbell rang.

Their friends arrived with beer, flowers, and a loaf of bread still warm from a bakery. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put music on Daniel’s phone while Maya filled glasses and Daniel returned the chicken to the oven.

Dinner began twenty minutes later. The potatoes were crisp, the salad had too much dressing, and the chicken was finally done. Conversation moved from a coworker’s disastrous presentation to rising rent and summer travel plans. Daniel told a story Maya had heard three times, but she laughed when he imitated his boss.

After dessert, everyone lingered around the table, scraping caramelized apple from the baking dish. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel washed while Maya dried. They worked without speaking for a few minutes, passing plates and pans between them.

“That went well,” he said.

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

“Yeah,” she said. “We should do it again.”

“After we buy more chairs.”

She handed him the last glass. “And a meat thermometer.”


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

“Try it now,” he said.

Maya sat briefly, bounced once, and nodded. “Less dangerous.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving in together six months earlier, and both had underestimated how much work it would take. Daniel had spent the afternoon buying groceries, only to return without ice. Maya had forgotten to chill the wine.

Daniel put two trays of ice cubes in the freezer and arranged sliced bread on a wooden board. Maya tasted the beans, added salt, then handed him a spoon. He suggested more lemon. She disagreed, tasted again, and added a little anyway.

At six-forty, they changed clothes in shifts because the bedroom was crowded with laundry they had swept off the couch. Daniel lit two candles. Maya turned off the harsh ceiling light and immediately turned it back on so she could find the serving spoon.

Their friends arrived carrying flowers, beer, and a chocolate cake from the grocery store. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wine while Daniel finished the salad, and Maya reheated the beans after realizing they had cooled.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. One chair wobbled despite Daniel’s repair, but nobody fell. The bread burned around the edges, and the salad had too much dressing. Still, everyone asked for seconds of the beans.

After the last guests left, Maya filled the sink while Daniel wrapped the remaining cake in foil. They stood together in the quiet kitchen, looking at the glasses, plates, and crumbs.

“We could clean tomorrow,” Daniel said.

Maya handed him a dish towel. “We could clean half.”

So they washed the plates, left the pots soaking, and ate two thin slices of cake over the sink.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like garlic and toasted cumin. Lena stood at the stove, stirring a pot of black beans while Mark crouched in front of the open refrigerator, rearranging bottles to make room for a pitcher of lime water.

“Did you buy sour cream?” Lena asked.

Mark stopped moving. “I bought yogurt.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough if we put it in a bowl.”

Lena laughed and handed him a spoon. “Taste the rice.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their narrow dining area could hold. Mark unfolded the card table they kept behind the sofa and covered it with a faded blue cloth. Lena counted plates, discovered one was chipped, and placed it at her own seat.

At six-fifteen, the chicken was still pink near the bone. Mark turned up the oven while Lena texted the group: Running ten minutes behind, come hungry. Then they worked side by side, stepping around each other in the small kitchen. He sliced avocados. She warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame. When one blackened, he opened the window before the smoke alarm could complain.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the speaker, and low music filled the apartment.

Dinner began late, but no one seemed to mind. Mark passed the beans and told the story of nearly buying vanilla yogurt. Lena corrected him—it had been strawberry—and everyone groaned.

Afterward, two friends washed dishes while the others ate lemon bars from the bakery box. Lena found Mark in the kitchen scraping rice into a container.

“Good night?” she asked.

He looked toward the table, where their friends were arguing cheerfully about a movie.

“Good night,” he said.

When the last guest left, they folded the card table together. The apartment was messy and warm. Lena put the flowers in a water glass, and Mark carried the empty bottles to recycling. Neither mentioned the cleanup waiting for morning.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant that Elena had trimmed down to stems.

“Too much?” she asked, holding a bowl of potatoes over the roasting pan.

Marcus looked up from the table, where he was folding cloth napkins into uneven rectangles. “For six people? No. For a restaurant, maybe.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them and still argue about where the serving spoons belonged. Elena handled the chicken and potatoes. Marcus made a salad, cleared mail from the kitchen counter, and carried two dining chairs up from the basement storage cage.

Their friends arrived in pairs. Nina and Joel brought wine. Sam and Priya brought a bakery box tied with string.

“You said no dessert,” Priya told Elena, shrugging off her coat, “so obviously we brought dessert.”

Marcus took coats to the bedroom and returned to find everyone crowded around the kitchen island. He opened the wine while Elena checked the chicken for the third time.

“It’s done,” he said, reading the thermometer over her shoulder.

“I know.”

“You’re still checking.”

“I like certainty.”

At the table, the potatoes were crisp, the chicken was slightly dry, and nobody cared. Joel told a story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work. Nina asked Marcus about his new supervisor. Elena refilled water glasses and finally sat down after Marcus touched her elbow and pointed to her cooling plate.

Later, they ate chocolate cake with mismatched forks because the clean ones were gone. Sam offered to help with dishes, but Marcus waved him away.

After the door closed behind the last guest, the apartment seemed suddenly larger and very quiet. Elena stacked plates while Marcus filled the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“The chicken was dry.”

“The cake wasn’t.”

She laughed and handed him a plate. He washed; she dried. On the table, one half-full wineglass remained beside a crumpled napkin, evidence of the evening they had worried over all week. Neither hurried to clear it.


By five thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the dining table and stacked it on the washing machine, where she knew they would forget it for a week. Marcus was in the kitchen, chopping onions for the tomato sauce and squinting dramatically.

“You could use the fan,” Lena said, setting out four mismatched cloth napkins.

“It ruins the atmosphere.”

“The atmosphere is onion gas.”

They had invited two friends, Priya and Daniel, for dinner at seven. It was the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the apartment in Ohio three months earlier. The place still looked temporary: framed prints leaned against walls, and a sealed box labeled BOOKS served as a plant stand.

Lena vacuumed while Marcus browned sausage and stirred the sauce. When she noticed they had no Parmesan, she grabbed her jacket and walked to the corner market. Marcus texted before she reached the end of the block: ALSO ICE. She returned with both, plus a loaf of bread they had not planned to buy.

At six forty-five, Marcus tasted the sauce and frowned.

“Too salty?”

“A little.”

Lena added a can of crushed tomatoes while he filled a pot for pasta. Together they rearranged the table so no one would be seated beside the radiator.

Priya and Daniel arrived carrying wine and a bakery box. For several minutes, everyone stood in the narrow entryway, taking off coats and apologizing for blocking one another. Then the pasta water boiled over.

Marcus rushed to the stove. Lena opened the wine and handed out glasses. Dinner was served ten minutes late, with the bread slightly burned on one side. Nobody seemed to mind.

They talked about work, rent increases, and a disastrous camping trip Daniel had taken in college. Afterward, Priya helped Lena clear plates while Marcus and Daniel divided the last piece of cake into four uneven slices.

When the door finally closed behind their friends, the apartment was quiet and warm.

“That went well,” Marcus said, surveying the dishes.

Lena picked up two plates. “It did. You wash.”

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and turned on the tap.


At five-thirty, Nina came home carrying two grocery bags against her chest. She found Marcus in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, staring at a recipe on his phone.

“You bought parsley, right?” he asked.

Nina lifted one bag onto the counter. “Flat-leaf. Not curly. I remembered the lecture.”

“It wasn’t a lecture.”

“It had visual aids.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their apartment since moving in together six months earlier. Marcus was making roast chicken and potatoes; Nina had volunteered for salad, drinks, and the vague category of “making the place presentable.”

While Marcus dried the chicken and measured salt, Nina cleared unopened mail from the dining table and carried a stack of shoes to the bedroom. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening the same drawer, reaching for the same towel, apologizing without much irritation.

At six-fifteen, Marcus realized the chicken would take longer than expected. Nina texted the group: Running 20 minutes behind. Come hungry, but not desperately hungry. She set out almonds and sliced cheese, then noticed they had only five matching plates.

“Use the blue one for me,” Marcus said. “I’m secure.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery pie. Coats accumulated on the bed. Someone opened a window after the smoke alarm chirped when fat dripped in the oven.

Dinner began at eight. The potatoes were crisp, the chicken slightly dry near the edges, and Nina’s dressing was sharper than she intended. Everyone ate anyway. Conversation moved from rent increases to a coworker’s wedding to whether anyone still watched local news.

Marcus refilled water glasses and carved the remaining chicken. Nina brought out the pie and found seven candles in a drawer, though it was nobody’s birthday. They lit them because the overhead light felt too bright.

After the last guests left, Nina washed while Marcus dried. It was nearly midnight.

“That went well,” he said.

“The smoke alarm disagrees.”

He put away the final plate. “It’s not invited next time.”

Nina leaned against him, tired and pleased, while the refrigerator hummed behind them.


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

“Is that 375 or 475?” he asked.

“Definitely not 475,” Maya said. “Unless we’re serving charcoal.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Daniel had borrowed two folding ones from a neighbor and covered their scratched seats with dish towels.

While Maya mixed herbs into a bowl of roasted potatoes, Daniel cleared mail from the table and carried an armful of unopened envelopes to the bedroom. He returned with candles, then discovered they had no matches.

“I’ll run downstairs,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Anything else?”

“Ice. And maybe another bottle of sparkling water.”

By the time he returned, Maya had put the chicken in the oven and changed her shirt after splattering oil on the first one. Daniel filled a chipped ceramic bowl with ice and arranged drinks on the windowsill, where the glass stayed cold.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery pie. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath. Daniel carved the chicken while Maya passed the potatoes and apologized for the slightly overcooked green beans.

“They’re vegetables,” their friend Lena said. “They’ll survive.”

Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous office holiday party. Halfway through dinner, the smoke alarm chirped because a drop of fat had burned in the oven. Daniel waved a towel beneath it while Maya opened the window, and everyone laughed when cold air rushed into the room.

Later, Daniel made coffee as Maya cut the pie into uneven slices. Their friends stayed past ten, helping stack plates by the sink before leaving.

In the quiet afterward, Maya leaned against the counter.

“That went well,” she said.

Daniel looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me after the dishes.”

She handed him a towel. “I’ll wash.”

He turned on the tap, and they began.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment outside Philadelphia. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from a neighbor while Maya cleared unopened mail from the table and tucked it into a kitchen drawer.

At six, Daniel discovered they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya whisked salad dressing and listened to a voicemail from her mother. When he returned, he carried two bags of ice and a bunch of yellow tulips.

“For the table,” he said, slightly embarrassed.

Their friends arrived in pairs, shaking rain from their jackets. Coats piled on the bed. Someone brought wine; someone else brought a bakery box of brownies. Daniel poured drinks and introduced Priya, his coworker, to Maya’s college friend Lauren. Maya moved the chicken to a serving platter, then realized she had not put out serving spoons.

Dinner was crowded and noisy. Knees bumped under the table. The chicken was a little dry, but the potatoes were crisp, and everyone asked for seconds. Daniel told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s runaway parakeet, and Maya corrected his exaggerations until they were both laughing too hard to continue.

After dessert, their guests lingered over coffee. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Maya stacked plates while Daniel filled the sink with hot water.

“That went well,” he said.

“You burned the first batch of bread.”

“You hid the mail with the oven mitts.”

They worked side by side, passing dishes between them. On the table, the tulips leaned toward the empty wineglasses. Maya turned on the radio, and Daniel opened the window a crack to let out the heat. Neither mentioned the cleanup waiting for morning.


By five o’clock, Maya had cleared the stack of mail from the dining table and hidden it in the bedroom, where it joined two laundry baskets they had promised to fold. In the kitchen, Ben stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“It needs something,” he said.

“Salt?”

“I already added salt.”

Maya tasted it. “It needs time.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their new apartment outside Denver. While the sauce simmered, Maya arranged mismatched plates around the table. Ben vacuumed the living room, stopping twice to move charging cables and once to rescue a sock from under the couch.

At six, Maya changed her shirt after splashing vinaigrette on it. Ben opened a bottle of wine, then realized they had forgotten ice. He pulled on his jacket and hurried to the corner store while Maya sliced bread and checked the lasagna.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing flowers, beer, and a bakery box tied with string. The apartment grew warm and noisy. Coats piled on the bed, concealing the laundry baskets.

Ben served drinks while Maya introduced two friends who had never met. When the smoke alarm chirped as she opened the oven, everyone laughed, and Ben waved a dish towel beneath it.

The lasagna was slightly too soft in the middle, but nobody complained. They passed salad and bread, discussed rent increases, weekend plans, and a dog one friend was considering adopting. Ben told a story Maya had heard three times; she corrected one detail, and he grinned.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the kitchen but were firmly dismissed from washing them. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya filled the sink with soapy water while Ben wrapped the remaining lasagna.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter and the wine stain on the tablecloth. “It did.”

They worked side by side, handing dishes back and forth, too tired to fold the laundry but pleased enough to leave it for morning.


By five-thirty, Lena had chopped the onions, but the chicken was still half frozen.

“I told you to move it to the fridge last night,” she said, nudging one of the hard pieces with a wooden spoon.

Marcus looked up from the dining table, where he was trying to make six mismatched place settings look intentional. “I told myself to move it. That’s not the same thing.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and had hosted friends exactly once, for pizza. Tonight, Lena was making chicken stew, and Marcus had promised a salad and garlic bread.

While the chicken thawed in cold water, Marcus walked to the corner store for another loaf because he had burned the first one. Lena wiped the counters, changed the kitchen towel, and moved a stack of mail from the table to the bedroom. When Marcus returned, carrying bread and a bag of ice, she handed him the corkscrew.

Their friends arrived in pairs: Nina and Rob with wine, then Kayla and Devon with a grocery-store cheesecake. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded into the kitchen, though Marcus kept saying there was more room in the living room.

The stew was twenty minutes late. Marcus dressed the salad, tasted it, and added too much salt. Lena thinned the dressing with lemon juice while he sliced the second loaf and watched it carefully through the oven door.

At dinner, Rob knocked over his water. Kayla told a long story about her new supervisor. Devon asked Marcus about the framed concert poster, and Lena admitted they had bought it online because neither of them had attended the show.

By nine, the cheesecake was half gone and the apartment windows had fogged. After their friends left, Lena stacked plates while Marcus packed leftovers into plastic containers.

“That went well,” he said.

“The bread did.”

“The second bread.”

She laughed, and he bumped the dishwasher shut with his hip. They left the last two wineglasses in the sink for morning and sat together on the couch, listening to their friends’ footsteps fade down the stairs.


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

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

“Three-seventy-five,” Maya said. “The number is almost gone.”

Ben turned the knob carefully and slid in the pan of chicken thighs. They had invited four friends, which felt manageable when they sent the texts on Monday. Now every chair they owned was arranged around their small dining table, including the folding chair from the hall closet.

Maya tasted the dressing and added salt. Ben cleared a stack of mail from the bookshelf and carried it into the bedroom.

“That’s not cleaning,” she called. “That’s relocating.”

“It counts until tomorrow.”

At six fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store cake with bright yellow frosting. Coats piled on the bed. Ben poured drinks while Maya finished the salad, and everyone crowded into the kitchen despite being asked to sit down.

The chicken took longer than expected. Ben checked it twice with a thermometer, apologizing each time. Maya set out olives in a cereal bowl and sliced the bread to keep people busy. Nobody seemed bothered. They talked about a new manager at work, a landlord who wouldn’t fix a radiator, and whether anyone still watched broadcast television.

When dinner was finally served, the folding chair wobbled. Ben folded a napkin under one leg while Maya passed the potatoes. The chicken was a little too salty, but the salad disappeared.

After cake, their friends helped carry plates to the sink. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Maya washed while Ben dried, stacking dishes wherever they fit.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter and the yellow frosting smeared on one plate.

“It did,” she agreed. “Next time, pizza.”

Ben handed her the last glass. “Absolutely.”

They both knew they would probably cook again.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a pot of rice while Daniel crouched in front of the open oven, checking the chicken with a thermometer.

“Still ten degrees short,” he said.

“Good. That gives us time to clear the mail off the table.”

Daniel looked toward the stack of envelopes, grocery coupons, and a jury summons that had occupied one end of their dining table all week. “I thought that was your department.”

“I bought the groceries.”

“Fair.”

They had invited four friends, the most their small Ohio apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the neighbors. Daniel gathered the mail and wiped the table while Maya tasted the rice, added salt, and frowned. Together they unfolded a card table and covered it with a clean bedsheet because they did not own a tablecloth.

At six-fifteen, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, a bakery pie, and a bag of ice no one had requested but everyone agreed would be useful. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya moved the chicken to a platter, and when she discovered the green beans had gone cold, he reheated them in a skillet.

Dinner was crowded and slightly awkward at first. Someone’s knee kept bumping the card table. The rice stuck to the bottom of the pot. But soon the conversation loosened. They talked about rent increases, a new manager at work, and whether the city would ever fix the pothole at the end of the block.

After pie, one friend washed dishes despite Maya’s protests. Daniel packed leftovers into mismatched containers and labeled them with masking tape. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again.

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

Daniel surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and damp dish towels. “We used every fork we own.”

“That’s how you know it was a real dinner.”

He handed her the last clean glass of wine, and they stood together in the kitchen, postponing the final round of cleanup.


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

“Is that four hundred?” he asked.

“It’s either four hundred or self-clean,” Maya said. “Choose carefully.”

Evan adjusted the dial and checked the chicken. They had invited four friends for dinner, their first attempt at hosting since moving in together eight months earlier. The dining table barely fit six, and one chair was borrowed from the desk.

Maya mixed dressing for the salad while Evan cleared a stack of mail from the table. They disagreed briefly about whether to light candles.

“It’ll look nice,” Maya said.

“It’ll look like we’re hiding the food.”

They lit them anyway.

At six twenty, the chicken was browning too quickly. Evan covered it with foil while Maya opened a window to release the smoke. When the buzzer sounded, both froze.

“Twenty minutes early,” Evan said.

Their friend Leah came upstairs carrying wine and a paper bag of ice. She laughed at the haze near the ceiling and helped Maya arrange crackers on a plate. Soon Marcus, Tessa, and Jordan arrived, bringing flowers, beer, and a bakery pie.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Evan carved the chicken at the counter because there was no room on the table. Maya passed bowls and refilled water glasses. The potatoes were underdone, so everyone cut them into smaller pieces and pretended not to notice. Marcus told a story about missing a flight, and Tessa nearly knocked over her wine laughing.

After pie, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. At the door, Leah hugged them and said, “You should do this again.”

When the apartment was quiet, Maya gathered plates while Evan filled the sink.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the wax on the tablecloth, the empty bottles, and the half-eaten chicken.

“Definitely,” she said.

They washed the dishes together, bumping elbows in the narrow kitchen.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant Maya kept on the kitchen windowsill. She stood at the counter zesting a lemon while Eric crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken was browning or burning.

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

“You say that because you don’t want to bend down.”

“I’m wearing white pants.”

Eric closed the oven. “Fair.”

They had invited four friends, which was the maximum their mismatched chairs could accommodate. Eric unfolded a card table beside the dining table and covered both with the same blue tablecloth, hiding the gap. Maya set out plates, then replaced one that had a crack running through the glaze.

At six-fifteen, Lena texted that they were running late. At six-twenty, Jonah arrived early with a bottle of wine and a paper bag of ice.

“I panicked,” he said, lifting the bag.

“Useful panic,” Eric told him, taking it to the freezer.

The others arrived within half an hour, bringing bread, salad, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats accumulated on the bed. The apartment grew warm and noisy.

During dinner, the chicken turned out moist, though the potatoes needed salt. Maya passed the shaker around while Eric explained how their upstairs neighbor had started practicing trumpet at seven every morning. As if summoned, a muffled scale sounded through the ceiling. Everyone stopped, listened, and laughed.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Eric cleared plates. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without speaking: she opened a drawer as he stepped aside; he handed her the sugar before she asked. In the living room, their friends divided the last slice of chocolate cake into four uneven pieces.

By eleven, the guests were gone. Eric carried glasses to the sink, and Maya folded the card table.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crowded counter and the wine stain on the tablecloth.

“Definitely,” she said.

They left the dishes soaking and sat together on the couch, listening to the building settle into silence.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of garlic, onions, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while reading the recipe from her phone for the fourth time.

“Too thick?” she asked.

Evan leaned over the pot. “Maybe. But I’m the person who burned rice yesterday.”

“You’re still allowed an opinion.”

He added a splash of pasta water, then returned to the dining table, where he was trying to fit six place settings around a table meant for four. They had invited two couples from work, their first real dinner since moving in together three months earlier.

Maya tasted the sauce and nodded. “Good call.”

Evan raised both hands in victory and knocked a fork onto the floor.

At six, the bread was warming, the salad was dressed, and the apartment looked almost organized. Evan carried a laundry basket full of unopened mail and stray shoes into the bedroom. Maya followed with the vacuum, stopping when she noticed his good shirt wrinkled on the bed.

“You can’t wear that.”

“I was planning to.”

She handed him the iron. “Then participate in your future.”

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, flowers, and a chocolate cake from a grocery-store bakery. Coats piled on the bed beside the hidden laundry basket.

Dinner began awkwardly, with everyone praising the apartment and no one knowing where to sit. Then the bread slipped from Evan’s cutting board and landed on the floor. He stared at it.

“Five-second rule?” someone suggested.

The laughter loosened the room. Maya served pasta while Evan refilled glasses and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s midnight exercise routine. Later, Maya burned her thumb on the baking sheet, and Evan found the first-aid kit while their guests cleared plates.

By ten, the cake was gone and the table was crowded with empty glasses. After the door closed behind the last guest, Maya leaned against Evan.

“That went well,” she said.

He looked at the sink. “Ask me after the dishes.”

Together, they turned on the faucet.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter, stripping thyme leaves into a bowl of softened butter, while Ben knelt in front of the oven with a flashlight.

“It’s heating,” he said, holding his palm near the open door. “Just not to the temperature it claims.”

“That’s comforting.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee. Maya had planned roast chicken, potatoes, and salad. Ben had volunteered dessert, which turned out to mean buying a bakery pie and transferring it to their only serving plate.

While Maya dried the chicken, Ben dragged the small kitchen table into the living room and added two folding chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor. One chair wobbled. He fixed it with cardboard from a cereal box.

At six, Maya checked the oven thermometer and frowned. Ben increased the temperature, then opened a window when the smoke alarm chirped. They laughed, though Maya’s laugh had an edge to it.

“We can order pizza,” he said.

“We are not ordering pizza.”

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bag of ice. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put music on Ben’s phone. The chicken needed another twenty minutes, so Maya poured drinks while Ben sliced cheese and arranged crackers. When he dropped three on the floor, he ate them before anyone noticed.

Dinner was crowded but warm. The potatoes were crisp, the chicken slightly late but good, and the salad bowl had to be passed carefully around the table. Ben told the story of the unreliable oven, exaggerating his repair efforts until Maya corrected him.

Afterward, Maya cleared plates while Ben made coffee. Their friends helped, stacking dishes beside the sink and wrapping leftover pie in foil. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Ben surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and stained tablecloth. “Success?”

Maya leaned against him, tired and pleased. “Ask me after we wash all this.”

They worked side by side, her washing and him drying, while the radiator clicked in the darkened living room.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, holding the door open with one hand and shining his phone’s flashlight inside with the other.

“I think the pilot’s out,” he said.

“It’s electric.”

“Then something electric is out.”

They had invited four friends for dinner at seven. It was already six fifteen, and the chicken thighs sat in a roasting pan, pale and heavily seasoned, while the oven display blinked an unhelpful error code.

Maya wiped her hands on a dish towel and searched the code online. Daniel checked the circuit breaker in the hall closet, moving aside the vacuum and a stack of reusable grocery bags. After he flipped the kitchen switch off and on, the oven beeped back to life.

“Heroic,” Maya said.

“I accept cash and praise.”

While the chicken roasted, Daniel set the table with mismatched plates they had accumulated since moving in together two years earlier. Maya stirred a pot of rice and tasted the salad dressing, then handed him a spoon.

“More lemon,” he said.

“You always say more lemon.”

“And I’m usually right.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, ice, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed because the apartment had no proper entry closet. Someone put music on the small speaker by the window. Daniel poured drinks while Maya transferred the chicken to a serving platter and quietly worried that it looked dry.

It wasn’t. Everyone ate seconds.

Conversation moved from a coworker’s disastrous presentation to rent increases, a planned camping trip, and whether anyone actually enjoyed running. When a wineglass tipped, Daniel grabbed towels while Maya lifted the rug’s corner away from the spill. No one made a fuss.

By ten thirty, the guests had gone. The apartment smelled of roasted garlic and dish soap. Maya washed plates while Daniel packed leftovers into containers.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded drying rack and the half-empty wine bottles.

“Next time, pizza.”

Daniel handed her the last greasy pan. “Absolutely.”

They both knew they would cook again.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, cumin, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood over a pot of lentil soup, tasting it with a wooden spoon, while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Still wobbly?” she asked.

“Only if Greg leans back like he always does.”

Maya laughed and added salt. They had been living together for two years, long enough to know which tasks the other would forget. She had bought the groceries but neglected ice. Daniel had remembered ice but had not chilled the wine. He wrapped the bottles in damp dish towels and put them in the freezer, setting a timer on his phone.

Their guests—Greg and Nina, and Maya’s coworker Elise—were due at seven. Daniel chopped parsley for the salad while Maya arranged mismatched plates around the table. They debated whether five people needed cloth napkins, then used them anyway because Maya’s mother had mailed a set at Christmas.

At six forty-five, the smoke alarm chirped. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it as Maya pulled the flatbread from the oven, its edges darker than planned.

“It’s rustic,” he said.

“It’s burned.”

“Rustically burned.”

The buzzer sounded before they could hide the worst pieces.

The evening unfolded easily. Coats piled on the bed, shoes crowded the entryway, and Greg avoided the repaired chair without knowing why everyone laughed. They passed bowls of soup and salad, and Elise asked for the flatbread recipe. Maya looked at Daniel, who said, “High heat and low expectations.”

After dessert—store-bought cookies warmed in the oven—they lingered over coffee. Nina told a story about getting locked out of her car, and Daniel refilled mugs while Maya cleared plates despite everyone’s protests.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel washed dishes; Maya dried. They were tired, and the counter was covered with crumbs, but the evening had gone well.

“Next time,” Maya said, stacking bowls, “we order pizza.”

Daniel handed her another plate. “And use paper napkins.”

They both knew they probably wouldn’t.


At four on Saturday, Maya cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Ben stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the pasta sauce. They had invited two other couples, which meant squeezing six people around a table usually occupied by laptops and unopened packages.

“Did you buy bread?” Maya asked.

Ben stopped chopping. “I bought everything on the list.”

“Bread wasn’t on the list.”

He checked the refrigerator as if a loaf might have appeared there. Maya laughed, grabbed her keys, and drove to the grocery store three blocks away. While she was gone, Ben stirred the sauce, wiped red splatters from the stove, and moved their cat’s food bowls into the laundry room.

Maya returned with bread, sparkling water, and a bunch of yellow tulips. She trimmed the stems while Ben searched for six matching plates. They owned four, so he added two blue ones from an old set his mother had given him.

Their friends arrived within minutes of one another, carrying wine, salad, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Ben poured drinks and introduced Maya’s coworker Tessa to his college friend Jordan, though both had heard stories about each other for years.

Dinner was slightly late. The pasta stuck together in places, and Maya forgot the Parmesan until everyone had started eating. Nobody minded. They talked about a neighborhood construction project, rising rent, a recent camping trip, and whether Jordan should adopt a dog. When Ben dropped a piece of bread, the cat shot out from the hallway and claimed it before anyone could react.

After dessert, their guests stayed longer than expected, leaning back in their chairs and finishing the wine. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya stacked plates beside the sink while Ben wrapped leftover pasta.

“That went well,” he said.

“You doubted me?”

“I doubted the table.”

Together they folded its extra leaf, carried glasses to the kitchen, and listened to the dishwasher begin its steady, familiar hum.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, checking the chicken through the cloudy glass.

“It’s browning too fast,” he said.

“You say that every time.”

“And sometimes I’m right.”

Maya smiled and handed him a sheet of foil. They had invited four friends, which felt manageable when they planned the dinner on Tuesday. Now every surface in their small Chicago kitchen held something: a bowl of salad, uncooked green beans, a loaf of bread, and the mail Daniel had forgotten to move.

While he covered the chicken, Maya cleared the table. They had only four matching plates, so she alternated the blue ones with two white plates from Daniel’s old apartment. Daniel filled a pitcher with tap water and dropped in lemon slices. Then they switched jobs: he dressed the salad while she wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced the nearly empty hand towel.

The buzzer sounded at six-forty, twenty minutes late. Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the window after the smoke alarm chirped when Daniel pulled the chicken from the oven.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Maya carved the chicken at the counter because there wasn’t room on the table. Daniel passed plates and remembered to bring out the mustard sauce only after everyone had started eating. They talked about a coworker’s wedding, rising rents, and a new grocery store opening nearby. One friend spilled water, and Maya tossed him a dish towel without interrupting her story.

After dessert, nobody moved for a while. The candles burned low, and the radiator clicked behind the curtains.

When the last guests left, Daniel locked the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and greasy roasting pan. “It did.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, bumping hips in the narrow kitchen. Daniel wrapped the leftover chicken. Maya ate one final bite of cake over the sink. By midnight, the apartment was mostly clean, except for the plates soaking in warm water and the faint smell of garlic that would still be there in the morning.


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

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

“It’s working.”

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

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

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

“Not under my pillow,” Maya called.

“I found a drawer.”

“You found my sock drawer.”

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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


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

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

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

“They never dissolve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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


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

“Is that four hundred?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

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

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

“Too salty?” he asked.

“No. I’m thinking.”

“That usually means too salty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“You burned the bread.”

“You oversalted the sauce.”

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


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

“Too much garlic?” he asked.

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

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

“That was raw,” Elena said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Next time, pizza?” Marcus asked.

Elena handed him a wet plate. “Absolutely.”

They both knew they would cook again.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We could leave it,” Ben said.

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


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

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

“We have two bottles.”

“That means no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

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

Together, they cleared the table before going to bed.


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

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

“Put the blue book under the worse one.”

“The cookbook?”

“We never use it.”

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

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

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

“Lena hates apples.”

“She can have ice cream.”

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“The salad needed more salt.”

“No one noticed.”

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


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

“Is that four hundred?” he asked.

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

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

“We can use the blue one,” Ben said.

“The blue one is chipped.”

“It has character.”

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

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

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

“We’re learning,” Mara said.

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

Under the table, Mara nudged his foot, smiling.

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

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

“Successful?” he asked.

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

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


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

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

“That inspires confidence,” Maya replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daniel tore off a piece. “Breakfast.”

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


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

“Is it still wobbling?” she asked.

“Only if someone breathes near it.”

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

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

“Salt?”

“It always needs salt when you say that.”

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

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

“Sorry,” they said together.

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“The chair survived.”

“So did we.”

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


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

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

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

“They were out of lime,” he said.

“We have lemon.”

“Compromise again.”

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

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

“It looks tired.”

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” Daniel said.

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

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


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“No one mentioned the burnt rice.”

“They ate it.”

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


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

“Give it ten more minutes,” Claire said.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And I was right then, too.”

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

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

“Shoes,” Claire said.

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“We nearly smoked them out.”

“But we didn’t.”

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

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

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


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

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

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I can smell the difference.”

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

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

“More salt?” she asked.

“Maybe honey.”

She added both.

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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


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

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

“Unless someone brings a date.”

“No one is bringing a date.”

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

“It’s too thick.”

Lena looked over his shoulder. “Add broth.”

“We’re out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marcus looked at the crowded sink. “Tomorrow?”

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

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


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

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

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

“I’ll use a spoon,” he said.

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

“I’ve overcome greater challenges.”

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

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


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

“Did you get Parmesan?” she asked.

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

“That answer worries me.”

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

“That’s not Parmesan. That’s dust.”

“It says Parmesan.”

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

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

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

“Close enough,” Evan said.

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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

“And real Parmesan,” he said.

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


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

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

“Approximately doesn’t inspire confidence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“More salt?”

“More honey.”

She added both.

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

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

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

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

“Successful?” he asked.

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

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

Daniel nodded. “And a chair.”

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


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

“Try it now,” he said.

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

“Good. But we need another place setting.”

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

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

“It needs salt,” he said.

“It always needs salt to you.”

She added a pinch anyway.

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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

“Or a bigger table.”

They both knew which was more likely.


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

“Did you get ice?” she asked.

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

“That wasn’t the question.”

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

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

“For the table,” he said.

“The table is already full.”

They put the flowers on the windowsill.

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

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

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


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

“It’s going to dry out,” Maya said.

“It’s still pink near the bone.”

“You’ve opened the oven four times.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

“The chicken was a little dry.”

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

“Maybe five.”

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