By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, staring into the refrigerator. Mark came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl.

“What are we doing for dinner?” he asked.

“I was thinking tacos, but we’re out of tortillas.”

Mark opened a cabinet as if tortillas might have moved there. “Rice bowls?”

Lena nodded. “That works.”

She rinsed a cup of rice while Mark found a can of black beans and the half-used packet of taco seasoning. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. Lena put the rice on the stove, then chopped an onion and the last green pepper. Mark drained the beans, spilling a few into the sink.

“You always use the big strainer for one can,” she said.

“It’s easier to wash.”

“It takes up half the dishwasher.”

He considered this, then washed the strainer by hand.

While the vegetables softened in a skillet, Mark opened the mail. There was an electric bill, a grocery-store flyer, and a postcard reminding him about a dentist appointment.

“You’re going this time,” Lena said.

“I went last time.”

“You rescheduled last time.”

“That still counts as going eventually.”

She laughed and handed him the wooden spoon. He stirred the vegetables and added the beans. Lena grated cheddar and sliced an avocado, trimming away a brown spot.

They filled two bowls with rice, beans, vegetables, cheese, salsa, and avocado. Mark carried them to the small dining table while Lena poured glasses of water. They ate with the evening news playing quietly from the living room.

The rice was slightly undercooked, but neither mentioned it until Mark crunched down on a grain and raised his eyebrows.

“I was hungry,” Lena said.

“It’s fine. Rustic.”

After dinner, she packed the leftovers for lunch. Mark loaded the dishwasher, fitting the bowls around the large strainer he had washed anyway. Lena noticed but let it go. She wiped the counter, and he turned off the kitchen light behind them.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their Ohio townhouse, reading the label on a jar of tomato sauce. Marcus came in through the garage carrying the mail and a bag of groceries.

“They were out of spinach,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I got broccoli instead.”

“That works.” Elena opened the refrigerator. “Pasta, broccoli, and salad?”

Marcus held up an envelope. “And a reminder that the electric bill exists.”

They divided the work without discussing it. Elena filled a pot with water while Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets. He ate one raw piece, made a face, and reached for another.

“You know it gets better when you cook it,” she said.

“I’m checking for quality.”

While the water heated, Elena rinsed lettuce and found half a cucumber in the crisper drawer. Marcus warmed olive oil in a skillet and added garlic. The garlic began to brown faster than he expected.

“Too hot,” Elena said.

“I see it.” He pulled the pan off the burner, and together they decided it was still usable. He added the broccoli and a splash of water, then covered the skillet with a lid that did not quite fit.

The pasta took longer than the package promised. Elena leaned against the counter and told Marcus about a meeting that had run through lunch. He listened while stirring the sauce, then described a customer who had called three times about the same delivery.

They ate at the small table near the window. The salad needed salt, and the broccoli was softer than either of them preferred, but the pasta was warm and filling.

“Do you want the leftovers for lunch?” Marcus asked.

“You take them,” Elena said. “I have that team lunch tomorrow.”

Afterward, Marcus washed the plates while Elena packed the remaining pasta into a plastic container. She wiped the stove, he started the dishwasher, and they stood for a moment comparing calendars on their phones.

“Groceries Thursday?” he asked.

“Thursday,” she agreed, turning off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, rain had darkened the windows of the small duplex where Lena and Marcus lived outside Columbus. Marcus came in through the side door carrying a grocery bag in one hand and shaking water from his jacket with the other.

“They were out of broccoli,” he said.

Lena looked up from the cutting board. “What did you get?”

“Green beans. And the cheap pasta was on sale.”

“Good enough.”

She had already sliced half an onion and two cloves of garlic. Marcus put a pot of water on the stove, added salt, and opened the package of spaghetti. While they waited for the water to boil, Lena heated olive oil in a skillet. The onions hissed when she tipped them in.

Marcus rinsed the green beans and snapped off the ends. He dropped one on the floor, and their cat, Mabel, hurried over to inspect it.

“You’re not going to eat that,” he told her.

“She might,” Lena said. “She ate a moth yesterday.”

They had planned to make chicken, but neither of them had remembered to thaw it. Lena suggested adding the last can of white beans to the sauce. Marcus found it behind a jar of peanut butter, drained it, and stirred it into the skillet with tomatoes and dried oregano.

At the table, they divided the pasta unevenly. Marcus took more, then pushed the bowl back toward Lena when she raised an eyebrow.

They ate with the local news playing quietly from the living room. Lena mentioned a meeting she was dreading the next morning. Marcus told her the rear tire on their car was losing air again, and they agreed he would take it to the shop before work on Friday.

The green beans were slightly undercooked, but the sauce was better than expected. Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet while she wiped the table.

“Tea?” he asked.

Lena glanced at the clock. “Only if you make it.”

He filled the kettle, and she turned off the television. Outside, the rain kept falling, steady and ordinary.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect Daniel standing at the stove. He loosened his tie with one hand and stirred a skillet of onions and ground turkey with the other.

“Did you add the taco seasoning?” Maya asked as she came in carrying the mail.

“It’s next to the stove,” he said.

She looked at the unopened packet. “So no.”

“I was building suspense.”

Maya laughed and set the mail beside the fruit bowl. She changed out of her work shoes, then returned in socks and opened a can of black beans. While Daniel sprinkled seasoning into the skillet, she rinsed the beans in a colander and checked the refrigerator.

“We have half an avocado,” she said. “It’s either perfect or completely brown.”

“Weekday roulette.”

She cut it open. The flesh was green except for one soft spot, which she trimmed away. Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs as their edges blistered. One stayed too long and began to smoke.

Maya opened the window. “That one’s yours.”

“Fair.”

They worked around each other without much discussion. She shredded lettuce and grated the last of a block of cheddar. He put the beans in a small saucepan with salt and cumin. When he reached past her for plates, she handed them over before he asked.

They carried everything to the small dining table, leaving the skillet on a folded dish towel between them. Daniel filled his first taco too generously, and turkey fell onto his plate when he tried to fold it.

“You do this every time,” Maya said.

“And every time, I’m optimistic.”

They talked about a repair estimate for the car and whether they needed groceries before Saturday. Maya sorted the mail while she ate, separating a utility bill from two advertisements. Daniel claimed the avocado half was better than expected.

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers into a container for his lunch. Daniel washed the skillet and wiped down the stove. She dried the plates and placed them in the cabinet, bumping his shoulder lightly as she passed.

By seven-fifteen, the kitchen was clean, the mail was stacked, and tomorrow’s lunch was waiting in the refrigerator.


Maya arrived home first and set her keys in the blue bowl by the door. The apartment smelled faintly of the coffee she and Daniel had left in the pot that morning. She opened the refrigerator, studied its crowded shelves, and texted him: **Tacos or pasta? We have ingredients for both, sort of.**

His answer came while she was changing out of her work clothes. **Tacos. I’ll get tortillas.**

By six-thirty, Maya had chopped half an onion and opened a can of black beans. Daniel came in carrying a paper grocery bag and shaking rain from his jacket.

“I bought cilantro too,” he said.

“We already had cilantro.”

“We had something green in a drawer.”

She pulled out the old bunch, now limp and dark at the edges. “Fair.”

Daniel warmed tortillas in a dry skillet while Maya sautéed the onion with ground turkey. He kept lifting the tortillas too early, and she nudged him aside with her hip.

“They need another ten seconds.”

“You always say that, and then they get stiff.”

“That’s because you leave them uncovered.”

He found a clean dish towel and stacked the finished tortillas inside it. Maya added cumin, salt, and the last spoonful of salsa from a jar. When she tasted the meat, she frowned.

“Needs lime.”

Daniel held up the grocery bag. “Forgot limes.”

They looked at each other, then at the bottle of lemon juice in the refrigerator door.

“Close enough,” he said.

They ate at the small kitchen table, with the local news playing quietly from the living room. Daniel assembled each taco carefully; Maya filled hers too full, and beans fell onto her plate.

He told her about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. She described the neighbor’s dog riding the elevator alone with her that morning. They divided the last tortilla without discussing it.

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers into one container for Maya’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he wiped the table and put the cilantro in a glass of water.

“Look,” he said. “We’re learning.”

Maya glanced at the dripping leaves. “We’ll see tomorrow.”


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, studying the refrigerator as if it might offer a new answer.

“We have chicken,” she called.

From the hallway, Marcus said, “We always have chicken.”

“We also have half a bag of spinach that’s about to become compost.”

Marcus came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. He loosened his tie, opened the refrigerator, and moved the milk aside. “Pasta?”

Elena nodded. “Pasta, chicken, spinach. Fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty-five,” he said. “You always forget the time it takes for the water to boil.”

While Elena filled a pot, Marcus cut the chicken into strips. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting automatically when one needed a drawer or cabinet. Elena heated olive oil in a skillet and added garlic. Marcus opened a utility bill, frowned at it, and slid it across the counter.

“Higher again,” he said.

“We ran the air conditioner all last week.”

“It was ninety-four degrees.”

“Then I guess we paid not to melt.”

He smiled and seasoned the chicken. Elena dropped spaghetti into the boiling water, then tore the spinach by hand because the cutting board was occupied. When the chicken was done, they tossed everything together with lemon juice, Parmesan, and a spoonful of pasta water.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb, and headlights moved along the wet street.

“This is good,” Marcus said.

“It needed red pepper.”

“You say that about everything.”

Elena reached for the shaker anyway and sprinkled some over her plate. They discussed whether to watch one episode of their show or clean the bathroom first. Marcus voted for the show. Elena pointed out that they had made the same decision three nights in a row.

After dinner, he washed the skillet while she packed the leftovers into a plastic container for lunch. Then Elena wiped the stove, Marcus turned off the kitchen light, and they went to clean the bathroom together.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Outside, a city bus sighed at the corner, and the last light reflected off the windows of the apartment building across the street.

“Ten minutes,” she said.

Marcus opened the refrigerator. “That’s what the box claims. What are we having with it?”

“There’s chicken from yesterday. And broccoli, if it’s still good.”

He pulled out the vegetable drawer and held up the broccoli. The stems were firm, but the tops had begun to yellow.

“Good enough for a Tuesday,” he said.

While Lena measured water into a saucepan, Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets. He put them on a sheet pan with oil, salt, and pepper, then added more pepper after Lena glanced over.

“You always under-season it.”

“I’m accounting for your habit of adding hot sauce to everything.”

“That’s separate.”

The oven had finished preheating. Marcus slid in the pan, and Lena shredded the leftover chicken with two forks. They discussed whether to warm it in the microwave or mix it into the couscous. Marcus argued that the microwave would dry it out. Lena said one minute wouldn’t ruin it. They compromised by stirring it into the saucepan after the couscous had absorbed the water.

As they waited, Marcus sorted the mail on the counter. He handed Lena an envelope from the electric company.

“You open it,” she said.

“You’re the one near the recycling.”

She opened it, checked the amount, and gave him a relieved nod. Lower than last month.

They ate at the small table by the window. The broccoli was slightly overdone at the edges, and the chicken needed salt, but the couscous had picked up the broth and tasted better than either expected.

Marcus reached for the hot sauce.

Lena smiled. “Separate, huh?”

He shook the bottle over his plate. “Completely separate.”

After dinner, she packed the leftovers for his lunch while he filled the sink with soapy water. They moved around each other without discussion, passing containers and utensils, finishing the ordinary work of the evening.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice. Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

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

“That’s fine. Did you get the chicken?”

He lifted the bag in answer.

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of practice. Elena rinsed the rice and measured water into a saucepan. Mark trimmed the green beans, dropping the ends into an empty yogurt container they used for scraps. The local news played quietly from a speaker, mostly traffic and weather.

“Should we cook all of it?” Mark asked, holding up the package of chicken thighs.

“Yes. We can take leftovers for lunch.”

He seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika while Elena heated oil in a skillet. When he placed the pieces in the pan, they hissed loudly, and she reached past him to turn on the vent.

“You always forget that,” she said.

“I was about to do it.”

“You say that every time.”

He smiled and handed her the tongs.

While the chicken browned, Mark sorted the mail at the table. He put a utility bill beside Elena’s laptop and recycled two advertisements. Elena steamed the green beans, then added butter and a squeeze of lemon. She tasted one and offered another to Mark.

“Needs salt,” he said.

“It does not.”

They compromised with a little salt.

At seven, they carried their plates to the small dining table by the window. The rice was slightly sticky, and one chicken thigh was darker than the others, but everything was hot. Mark asked about Elena’s meeting; she asked whether the mechanic had called about his car.

After they ate, Elena packed two lunch containers. Mark loaded the dishwasher and wiped the stove. They left the skillet soaking in the sink, agreeing without discussion that it could wait until morning.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, a delivery truck rattled down their street, brakes squealing at the corner.

“Roast or microwave?” she asked.

Evan opened the refrigerator and looked inside as if another dinner option might appear. “Roast. We already have the oven on.”

They had agreed on chicken thighs, rice, and whatever vegetable needed to be used first. Maya spread the green beans on a sheet pan while Evan trimmed a loose piece of skin from the chicken and rubbed the thighs with salt, pepper, and paprika.

“Did you pay the water bill?” he asked.

“I scheduled it for Friday.” She drizzled olive oil over the beans. “Did you call the dentist?”

Evan paused. “I remembered to think about calling.”

Maya gave him a look, then laughed. “Put it in your phone.”

While the chicken roasted, Evan rinsed the rice and measured water into a saucepan. Maya cleared mail from the small table, separating recycling from an envelope they needed to keep. They moved around each other without much discussion, opening drawers, trading utensils, wiping up spills.

The rice finished early. Evan fluffed it with a fork and replaced the lid. Maya checked the chicken with the thermometer they had bought after an undercooked Thanksgiving turkey. It needed five more minutes.

They ate at the table with the overhead light off and the lamp in the living room on. The green beans were slightly shriveled, the chicken crisp at the edges.

“This is good,” Evan said.

“It’s salt and paprika.”

“Still good.”

They discussed whether to watch an episode of their show or take a walk before it got dark. Maya voted for the walk; Evan pointed out the dishes.

“We can do both,” she said, stacking their plates.

So he filled the sink while she packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Ten minutes later, they stepped outside together, Evan checking the lock twice, Maya already halfway down the porch steps.


By six-thirty, Daniel had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a box of couscous. Outside their apartment in Columbus, Ohio, tires hissed over the wet street.

“Five minutes,” he said. “That seems suspicious.”

Maya set a grocery bag on the counter. “It’s tiny pasta. Don’t overthink it.”

She unpacked two zucchini, a lemon, and a package of chicken thighs. Daniel found the cutting board while Maya preheated the oven. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced adjustments of people who had shared it for years: a hand at the waist, a quiet “behind you,” a cupboard door closed before the other could bump into it.

“Roast the zucchini or sauté it?” Maya asked.

“Roast. Fewer dishes.”

“You say that, but you’re not the one who cleans the sheet pan.”

Daniel opened the dishwasher. “I cleaned it last time.”

“You soaked it. That’s not the same thing.”

Still, she sliced the zucchini into thick coins while he seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, paprika, and more garlic powder than she would have used. Maya noticed but said nothing. Instead, she lined the sheet pan with foil.

“Peace offering?” he asked.

“Efficiency.”

While the chicken cooked, Daniel made the couscous and Maya mixed lemon juice with yogurt for a quick sauce. They discussed whether the car needed new tires before winter and agreed to check prices on Saturday. Then Maya remembered the laundry in the washer, and Daniel went to move it to the dryer.

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken skin had browned unevenly, but the zucchini was crisp at the edges, and the couscous absorbed the lemony sauce.

“This is good,” Maya said.

“Even with the garlic?”

“Because of the garlic.”

Daniel smiled and took another bite. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while he washed the sheet pan without soaking it first. She dried it and put it away, and they left the couscous pot in the sink for morning.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, a city bus sighed at the corner, and the last January light faded behind the neighboring houses.

“Four to six minutes,” she said. “That’s not very specific.”

Marcus set two chicken breasts on the cutting board. “Five sounds promising.”

He patted them dry while Elena heated a skillet. They had planned to make tacos, but neither had remembered to thaw the ground beef. Chicken, rice, and green beans became the backup plan.

“Did you pay the water bill?” Marcus asked.

Elena opened the cabinet above the stove and reached for the olive oil. “This morning. Did you call the dentist?”

“I left a message.”

“That means no.”

“It means the ball is in their court.”

She smiled and handed him the salt. Marcus seasoned the chicken, then lowered it into the hot pan. Oil snapped against his wrist, and he stepped back.

While he cooked, Elena microwaved the beans and divided leftover rice between two bowls. She added a spoonful of water before covering them with a plate.

“It keeps the rice from drying out,” she explained.

“I know. I taught you that.”

“My mother taught me that.”

“Then I independently discovered it.”

They ate at the small table beside the kitchen window. The chicken was slightly overcooked, but the rice was warm and the green beans still had some bite. Marcus added hot sauce. Elena squeezed lemon over everything.

They talked about a coworker’s retirement party, whether the car needed new tires, and which of them could stop for groceries the next day. Elena volunteered, provided Marcus texted her the list before noon.

Afterward, he packed the remaining chicken for lunch while she rinsed the plates. He loaded the dishwasher; she wiped the stove.

“Tea?” he asked.

Elena glanced at the clock. “Only if it’s decaf.”

Marcus filled the kettle, and she turned off the kitchen light except for the one above the sink.


At six fifteen, Mara set her laptop on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator. “We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and one bell pepper that’s thinking about retirement.”

From the hallway, Daniel called, “How bad is it?”

She held up the wrinkled pepper as he entered, loosening his tie. “Still legally a vegetable.”

“Stir-fry?”

“Too much chopping.”

“Tacos?”

“No tortillas.”

They settled on pasta with chicken and vegetables. Daniel filled a pot with water while Mara cut the pepper open and inspected the soft spots. She trimmed away one dark corner, then sliced the rest. Daniel changed into a T-shirt and returned to season the chicken with salt, pepper, and garlic powder.

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

“I scheduled it for Friday.”

“Friday or next Friday?”

He paused. “Good question.”

While he checked his phone, the pasta water began to boil. Mara added penne and stirred it with a wooden spoon. Daniel confirmed the payment date, then heated oil in a skillet. The chicken hissed when it hit the pan.

Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit—Mara stepping aside for the colander, Daniel reaching over her for the olive oil. She added spinach to the skillet in handfuls. It looked like too much, then collapsed almost immediately.

They drained the pasta and mixed everything together with a spoonful of jarred pesto. Daniel tasted it.

“Needs lemon.”

“We don’t have lemon.”

He added a splash of bottled juice from the refrigerator door. Mara tasted again and nodded.

They ate at the small table by the window, with the mail pushed to one side. Outside, a neighbor walked a beagle past the parked cars.

Daniel asked whether they should visit his mother on Sunday. Mara checked the shared calendar on her phone and suggested Saturday afternoon instead. They agreed, then divided the remaining pasta into two containers for lunch.

Afterward, Mara washed the skillet while Daniel dried the plates. He set the coffee maker for morning, and she turned off the kitchen light.


At six twenty, Maya came through the apartment door carrying a paper grocery bag against her hip. Daniel looked up from the kitchen table, where his laptop was open beside a stack of mail.

“I thought we had pasta,” he said.

“We do. We didn’t have anything to put on it.”

He closed the laptop and took the bag. Inside were cherry tomatoes, spinach, a loaf of bread, and a carton of eggs.

“Eggs?”

“For tomorrow. Unless you want breakfast for dinner.”

Daniel considered it. “No, I already told myself we were having pasta.”

While Maya changed out of her work clothes, Daniel filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. He found half an onion in the refrigerator, trimmed the dry edge, and began chopping. Maya returned in sweatpants, tied her hair back, and rinsed the tomatoes.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“I left a message.”

“That means no.”

“It means I participated in the process.”

She smiled and tipped the tomatoes onto the cutting board. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen: Daniel at the stove, Maya opening the stubborn jar of garlic. The water boiled. He added spaghetti, then stirred the onion, garlic, and tomatoes in a skillet until the tomatoes softened. Maya added handfuls of spinach, watching it collapse into the sauce.

They ate at the table with slices of bread toasted under the broiler. Daniel sprinkled too much red pepper on his pasta and drank half his water after the first bite.

“You do that every time,” Maya said.

“Someday my tolerance will improve.”

Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Someone upstairs dragged a chair across the floor. Maya sorted the mail between bites, setting aside a utility bill and throwing away two credit card offers. Daniel told her about a meeting that had gone long; she described a customer who had returned the same lamp twice.

When they finished, Maya packed the leftovers into one container. Daniel washed the skillet and pot while she wiped the table.

“Lunch tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded. “If you call the plumber.”

She handed him the phone. “Participate again.”


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Mark came in from the garage carrying the mail and set a grocery store flyer on the counter.

“Chicken?” Lena asked.

“We had chicken yesterday.”

“Pasta?”

“We’re out of sauce.”

They considered the shelves together. There were eggs, half a bag of spinach, tortillas, a jar of salsa, and a block of cheddar. Mark held up the eggs.

“Breakfast tacos.”

Lena nodded. “If you cook the eggs, I’ll do everything else.”

Mark put a skillet on the stove while Lena rinsed the spinach. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit: Lena stepped aside to let him reach the drawer, and Mark shifted the cutting board when she needed counter space. He cracked six eggs into a bowl, added pepper, and whisked them with a fork.

“Did you call the plumber?” Lena asked.

“Left a message. He can probably come Thursday.”

“I’m working from home Thursday.”

“Perfect.”

Lena chopped the spinach and grated cheese. Mark warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs until they had brown spots. One caught at the edge and began to smoke.

“Careful,” Lena said, opening the window.

“It’s flavor,” Mark replied.

They carried their plates to the small dining table near the living room. Lena added too much salsa to her first taco and reached for her water. Mark laughed, then slid the sour cream toward her.

They ate while sorting through the day: a delayed project at Lena’s office, a strange noise from Mark’s car, whether they needed to buy a birthday gift for his sister. Neither remembered what she had said she wanted.

After dinner, Mark packed the leftover eggs into a container for Lena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he wiped the table and put the tortillas away.

“Not bad,” he said.

“For a dinner made from almost nothing.”

They left the dishes to dry and went to the couch, agreeing they would make a grocery list before bed.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice packet. Outside, a city bus sighed at the corner, and rain made the apartment windows look gray.

“Twenty minutes,” she said.

Marcus opened the refrigerator. “The chicken says twelve.”

“The broccoli says eight.”

“So the rice is in charge.”

He filled a saucepan while Nina set a cutting board on the counter. They had planned tacos, but neither of them had remembered to buy tortillas. After a brief discussion, they settled on rice bowls with chicken, broccoli, and the last of a bottle of teriyaki sauce.

Marcus cut the chicken into uneven pieces. Nina watched for a moment.

“Those are going to cook at different speeds.”

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re a food-safety issue.”

He laughed and trimmed the larger pieces. Nina started the rice, then rinsed the broccoli in a colander. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought: she stepped aside for the trash can; he reached over her for the salt; both said “sorry” at the same time.

While the chicken browned, Marcus sorted the mail at the table. He held up an envelope from the electric company.

“Want to guess?”

“No.”

“One hundred twelve.”

Nina winced. “We’re turning the heat down tonight.”

“You say that now.”

She added the broccoli to the skillet and covered it. Steam clouded the lid. Marcus found two clean bowls and poured water into their chipped glasses.

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly sticky, and the broccoli had gone softer than Nina preferred, but the chicken was good.

“We should make this again,” Marcus said.

“With fresh ginger next time.”

“And tortillas.”

“That would make it tacos.”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll make tacos.”

After dinner, Nina packed the leftovers for Marcus’s lunch. He washed the skillet while she wiped the counter and set the coffee maker for morning. The rain kept tapping the glass, steady and ordinary, as they turned off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, Daniel had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Outside their townhouse in Columbus, rain tapped steadily against the windows.

“Five minutes,” he said. “That’s suspiciously fast.”

Maya set two chicken breasts on a cutting board. “It’s pasta the size of sand. What do you want from it?”

She opened the refrigerator and frowned. They had planned on broccoli, but the bag in the vegetable drawer smelled sour.

“Carrots?” Daniel suggested.

“We had carrots yesterday.”

“Frozen peas?”

Maya considered this, then nodded. “Frozen peas.”

While she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika, Daniel filled a saucepan with water. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen without speaking much. When Maya needed the olive oil, he handed it over before she asked. When he opened the wrong burner, she reached past him and turned it off.

Daniel cooked the chicken in a skillet, checking the thickest piece twice with a thermometer. Maya poured peas into a bowl and microwaved them, then stirred butter and lemon juice into the couscous.

“Plates or bowls?” she asked.

“Bowls. Less likely to lose peas.”

They carried dinner to the small table by the window. Daniel went back for hot sauce, and Maya moved a stack of unopened mail from his chair to the counter.

The chicken was slightly dry, but the couscous had absorbed the lemon and pan juices. Maya added hot sauce to hers. Daniel mixed his peas into everything.

They talked about the plumber coming Friday and whether they could postpone buying new tires until next month. Maya described a confusing meeting at work; Daniel listened, then admitted he had forgotten to call his mother.

“Do it after dishes,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll wash if you dry.”

When they finished, Maya packed the remaining couscous into a container for lunch. Daniel filled the sink with warm water, and they stood side by side again, passing plates and utensils between them while the rain continued outside.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Rachel stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while her husband, Marcus, searched the refrigerator.

“We have half an onion,” he announced, holding it up as if it were evidence.

“That’s all we need.”

They had both arrived home late—Rachel from the elementary school where she worked in the office, Marcus from the auto-parts warehouse across town. On the drive home, they had exchanged texts about ordering pizza, but the package of chicken thighs in the refrigerator needed to be cooked.

Marcus set a skillet on the stove and added oil. Rachel tipped the sliced pepper and onion into a bowl, then opened a packet of taco seasoning.

“Not the whole thing,” Marcus said. “Too salty.”

“You say that every time.”

“And every time you use the whole thing.”

She smiled and shook in about two-thirds. Marcus browned the chicken while Rachel warmed tortillas directly over a gas burner, flipping them with tongs. When one edge blackened, the smoke detector gave a warning chirp.

“I’ve got it,” Marcus said, opening the back door.

Cold November air rushed in. Rachel waved a dish towel beneath the detector until it stopped.

They carried everything to the small dining table: chicken and peppers, shredded cheese, salsa, and a container of sour cream with barely a spoonful left. Marcus filled two glasses with tap water and brought over the mail, but Rachel moved it to the empty chair.

“No bills during dinner.”

“Good rule.”

They assembled their tacos. Marcus added too much salsa and reached for a napkin when it ran down his wrist. Rachel told him about a parent who had arrived at school on the wrong day for a conference. He described a forklift that had stalled in the loading bay.

Afterward, Rachel packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. She dried the plates and placed them in the cabinet.

“Pizza tomorrow?” he asked.

“We’ll see,” she said, turning off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a yellow onion. Marcus came in through the garage carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

“They were out of the small tortillas,” he said, setting down a package large enough for burritos.

“We can make quesadillas and fold them twice,” Elena said. “Or just accept that dinner is oversized.”

Marcus sorted the mail into a recycling pile and a smaller stack of bills. Then he washed his hands and opened the refrigerator. They had planned tacos, but the ground turkey was still half frozen.

“Eggs?” he suggested.

Elena looked at the onion, then at the tortillas. “Breakfast quesadillas.”

He grated cheddar while she cooked the onion with the last half of a green pepper. The skillet hissed, and the kitchen window fogged slightly above the sink. Marcus cracked six eggs into a bowl, dropping a small piece of shell into them. Elena fished it out with a spoon.

“You always chase it around,” she said. “Use the shell.”

“I had it.”

“You absolutely did not.”

He whisked the eggs with salt and pepper, smiling without looking up. Elena moved the vegetables to a plate, and Marcus scrambled the eggs in the same pan. While they worked, she told him about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. He told her their neighbor’s trash can had rolled into the street again.

They filled two tortillas with eggs, vegetables, cheese, and salsa, then folded them into thick half-moons. Marcus browned them one at a time while Elena rinsed the cutting board and packed the extra filling for lunch.

They ate at the small table near the kitchen, with paper napkins and glasses of tap water. One quesadilla leaked cheese onto Marcus’s plate.

“Oversized was the right choice,” he said.

Elena nodded and reached for the salsa. Outside, a delivery truck stopped at the house across the street. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, and they discussed whether they had enough coffee for the morning.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a box of couscous. Rain tapped against the windows of their townhouse outside Baltimore.

“Ten minutes,” she called.

Marcus came in from the garage carrying two grocery bags. “The chicken took longer. Everybody decided to shop at once.”

He set the bags on the counter and began putting things away. Elena found a package of green beans and held it up.

“These tonight?”

“If they’re still good.”

They inspected the beans together. A few had gone soft, so Marcus trimmed those ends while Elena heated olive oil in a skillet. They had planned to bake the chicken, but neither wanted to wait forty minutes.

“Cutlets?” Elena suggested.

Marcus nodded. “Faster.”

He sliced the chicken breasts thinner and seasoned them with salt, pepper, and paprika. Elena added the beans to the skillet with garlic, then stepped aside so he could use the larger burner. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, exchanging utensils, and wiping up small spills as they went.

While the chicken cooked, Marcus sorted the mail. He placed a utility bill near Elena’s elbow.

“Already paid,” she said.

“Good. I’ll recycle it.”

The couscous absorbed its water too quickly and clumped. Elena frowned at it, but Marcus loosened it with a fork and added a little butter.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s Tuesday.”

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken was slightly overbrowned, but still tender, and the beans had stayed crisp. Elena mentioned a meeting scheduled for early the next morning. Marcus reminded her that his car needed to go to the shop on Thursday, so they compared calendars and decided she would work from home that day.

After dinner, Elena packed the leftovers into one container for Marcus’s lunch. He washed the skillet while she dried the plates.

“Tea?” he asked.

She looked at the clock. “Only if it’s decaf.”

He filled the kettle, and she turned off the kitchen light except for the one above the stove.


By six-thirty, Mara had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, studying the refrigerator as if it might offer a suggestion.

“We have chicken,” she called.

From the hallway, Daniel answered, “We always have chicken.”

“We also have half a zucchini and some rice.”

Daniel came in carrying the mail. He set two envelopes and a grocery flyer on the counter, then opened a cabinet. “Stir-fry?”

“Too much chopping.”

“Tacos?”

“No tortillas.”

He held up the grocery flyer. “Pizza coupon?”

Mara gave him a look, and he laughed. They had ordered pizza twice the week before.

They settled on sheet-pan chicken with zucchini and the last two carrots in the produce drawer. Daniel turned on the oven while Mara cut the vegetables into uneven pieces. He trimmed the chicken thighs, dropping the scraps into an old yogurt container they used for trash.

“Paprika?” he asked.

“And garlic powder. Not too much salt.”

“You said that last time, and then you added salt at the table.”

“That was different.”

While the food roasted, Mara rinsed the rice and started it in a small saucepan. Daniel sorted the mail, tossing an advertisement into recycling and placing the electric bill beside his laptop. They talked about his afternoon meeting, her delayed train, and whether they could wait until Saturday to buy groceries.

When the timer rang, Daniel checked the chicken with a thermometer. Mara fluffed the rice and tasted a carrot from the pan.

“Needs salt,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows but passed her the shaker.

They ate at the small table by the window, their plates balanced around a stack of unopened library books. Outside, someone walked a beagle under the streetlights. The chicken was a little dry, but the zucchini had browned nicely.

Daniel took the last spoonful of rice. “Lunch leftovers?”

Mara divided the remaining chicken between two containers. “If you wash the pan.”

“Deal.”

He filled the sink with hot water while she snapped on the lids and wrote their initials on masking tape. By seven-thirty, dinner was put away, the counters were wiped, and the apartment smelled faintly of garlic.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark. Rachel stood at the counter in her socks, cutting broccoli into uneven florets while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. She had changed out of her work clothes but still wore her office badge on its blue lanyard.

“Do we have soy sauce?” she asked.

Daniel opened the refrigerator and moved a carton of eggs, two jars of pickles, and a container of leftover chili. “Some,” he said, holding up the bottle. “Maybe two tablespoons.”

“That’s enough if you don’t drown everything.”

“I season boldly.”

“You pour boldly.”

He smiled and set the bottle beside the stove. They had agreed on chicken, broccoli, and rice because it was Tuesday, both had worked late, and the chicken needed to be used. Daniel sliced it into strips while Rachel heated oil in their largest skillet. When the pan began to hiss, he added the chicken and stepped back.

“You always do that,” she said.

“It spits.”

“It’s oil. That’s its job.”

While the chicken browned, Rachel rinsed the cutting board and Daniel mixed the remaining soy sauce with honey, garlic powder, and a little water. He tasted it, frowned, then added red pepper flakes.

“Not too much,” Rachel warned.

He stopped shaking the jar. “That was not too much.”

They added the broccoli and covered the skillet. Steam clouded the glass lid. Rachel used the three waiting minutes to sort the mail: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist. Daniel packed leftovers from the chili into a smaller container so it would fit in the freezer.

The rice cooker clicked to warm just as the broccoli turned bright green. They filled two bowls and carried them to the small table by the window.

Daniel took a bite. “Needs soy sauce.”

“There isn’t any.”

He considered this, then reached for the salt.

Rachel laughed and nudged the red pepper flakes toward him. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, they ate, compared their workdays, and decided whoever finished first would wash the skillet.


At six fifteen, Maya set her laptop to sleep and carried it from the dining table to the bedroom. In the kitchen, her husband, Daniel, stood with the refrigerator open, studying its contents.

“We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and that rice from Monday,” he said.

Maya tied back her hair. “The rice is still good. Let’s do bowls.”

Daniel took out the containers while Maya found an onion and a bottle of soy sauce. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of practice. He put a skillet on the stove; she rinsed the spinach and picked out two yellow leaves.

“Garlic?” he asked.

“Always.”

He chopped two cloves, then added a third. Maya sliced the chicken into strips and seasoned it with salt and pepper. When the oil began to shimmer, Daniel tipped in the onion. It hissed loudly enough that they both stepped back.

While the chicken cooked, Maya reheated the rice in the microwave with a damp paper towel. Daniel stirred the skillet and told her about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. She listened, opening the mail over the trash can and separating a utility bill from a grocery flyer.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“I forgot,” he admitted. “I’ll do it tomorrow morning.”

She gave him a look, then smiled. “Put it in your phone.”

He did, setting a reminder before adding the spinach to the pan. It wilted almost immediately. Maya poured in soy sauce and a little honey, tasted the mixture, and added vinegar.

They filled two bowls and carried them to the small table by the window. Outside, headlights moved along the wet street. Daniel got up for hot sauce; Maya brought back sparkling water for both of them.

The rice had dried slightly around the edges, but the chicken was tender and the sauce was better than expected. They ate slowly, discussing whether they needed groceries before the weekend.

Afterward, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. She wiped the counter, he turned off the kitchen light, and together they went to the living room.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a bell pepper into uneven strips. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their townhouse in Columbus, Ohio. The weather report played quietly from a phone propped beside the sink.

Marcus came in carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

“They were out of the good tortillas,” he said, setting both on the table. “I got the flour ones.”

“They’ll work.” Elena glanced into the bag. “Did you get cheese?”

Marcus held up a small package of shredded cheddar.

“Then we’re fine.”

They had planned tacos because the ground turkey needed to be used. Marcus heated a skillet while Elena finished the pepper and chopped half an onion. When the pan began to smoke, she reached past him and turned down the burner.

“Medium heat,” she said.

“I know.”

“You say that every time.”

He smiled and added the turkey. Elena opened a can of black beans, rinsed them in a colander, and found a lime in the refrigerator drawer. It was slightly hard but still usable. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting aside without discussion whenever the other needed a drawer.

While the filling simmered, Marcus sorted the mail. He put a utility bill near Elena’s laptop and dropped two advertisements into recycling. Elena warmed the tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs.

At the table, they assembled their tacos differently. Marcus layered meat, beans, cheese, and hot sauce. Elena used more peppers and squeezed lime over everything.

“This needs salt,” Marcus said after his first bite.

“There’s salt in the turkey.”

“It still needs salt.”

He got up and brought the shaker back. Elena asked about his afternoon meeting, and he gave a brief imitation of his manager saying “circle back.” She laughed, nearly spilling a bean onto her shirt.

They ate slowly, listening to the rain. When they finished, Marcus packed the leftovers for lunch. Elena washed the skillet while he dried the plates, and together they wiped down the table before turning off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel rinsed rice in a mesh strainer.

“Is that enough?” he asked, holding up the cloudy water.

“Give it one more rinse,” Maya said. “Last time it was glue.”

“It was risotto-adjacent.”

“It was jasmine rice.”

Daniel rinsed it again. They had both worked late, and neither wanted to spend much time cooking. On the drive home, Maya had suggested takeout, but Daniel remembered the chicken thighs thawing in the refrigerator. Now a skillet warmed on the stove, carrying the smell of garlic and oil through their small Ohio townhouse.

Maya pushed the chopped pepper toward him. “Can you add these after you turn the chicken?”

He nodded, then checked the pan. “Not ready yet.”

“You always turn it too early.”

“And you always wait until it’s nearly fossilized.”

They stood together watching the chicken sizzle. Daniel slipped the spatula underneath one piece and lifted the edge. The underside was browned, so he turned it. Maya tipped in the peppers, and the pan hissed.

While the rice cooked, she cleared mail from the table: an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist. Daniel mixed soy sauce, honey, and a spoonful of mustard in a coffee mug. He tasted it, frowned, and added more soy sauce.

They ate at the table under the hanging lamp, dividing the last of the peppers evenly. The chicken was slightly too salty, but the rice had come out separate and fluffy.

“Better than takeout,” Daniel said.

“Cheaper, anyway.”

Maya reached across and took a piece of chicken from his plate. He pretended not to notice, then stole a pepper from hers.

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers into a plastic container for Maya’s lunch. She filled the sink with hot water and handed him a towel. Together they washed the skillet, wiped the counter, and argued mildly about whose turn it was to take out the trash.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a bag of frozen green beans. Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the local news playing in the living room.

“Twenty minutes at four-twenty-five,” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail. “The chicken only needs fifteen.”

“So the beans go first.”

He set the envelopes on the counter and opened the refrigerator. They had agreed to cook at home on weeknights, partly to save money and partly because takeout containers had begun taking over the recycling bin. Tonight’s plan was chicken thighs, green beans, and boxed couscous.

Marcus lined a sheet pan with foil while Lena emptied the beans into a bowl and tossed them with oil, salt, and garlic powder. He trimmed a loose piece of skin from the chicken and rubbed the thighs with paprika and black pepper.

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

“Scheduled it for Friday.”

“Before the late fee?”

He glanced at her. “Two days before.”

She nodded, satisfied, and slid the beans into the oven. While they cooked, Marcus sorted the mail into a neat stack and Lena filled a saucepan with water for the couscous. They discussed whether to visit his sister on Saturday. Marcus wanted to go early; Lena wanted one morning without an alarm. They settled on leaving at eleven.

When the timer rang, Marcus added the chicken to the pan and rotated the beans. Lena wiped the counter, then leaned against it while the couscous steamed under its lid.

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken skin was crisp, though one tray of green beans had browned more than expected.

“These are almost chips,” Marcus said.

“But good chips.”

He took another forkful. “Definitely good chips.”

After dinner, Lena packed the leftovers for lunch. Marcus washed the pan, and she dried it. They moved around each other easily, passing plates and utensils without asking, while the evening news continued in the next room.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Outside the window, rain darkened the parking lot of their apartment complex in Ohio.

“Garlic and basil or roasted tomato?” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail, his tie loosened. “Which one expires first?”

Elena checked. “Roasted tomato.”

“Then fate has spoken.”

He set the envelopes on the counter and filled a pot with water while Elena opened the refrigerator. They had half a bag of spinach, a small piece of Parmesan, and three mushrooms that were beginning to wrinkle.

“These need to go tonight,” she said, holding up the mushrooms.

Marcus took the cutting board. “I’ll handle them.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced adjustments. Elena poured the sauce into a saucepan and added the spinach. Marcus sliced the mushrooms and sautéed them in a little oil. When the water boiled, he shook in the remaining spaghetti.

“All of it?” Elena asked.

“It’s not enough to save.”

“It’s enough for lunch tomorrow.”

He looked into the nearly empty box, reconsidered, and left a small handful. “Fine. Emergency pasta.”

While the noodles cooked, Elena sorted the mail. She placed the electric bill beside Marcus’s plate and dropped two advertisements into recycling. Marcus grated Parmesan, then swept the stray shavings into his palm and ate them.

“I saw that,” she said.

“Quality control.”

They drained the pasta together, Marcus holding the colander while Elena tipped the pot. The steam fogged her glasses. He stirred in the sauce and mushrooms, and she added black pepper.

They ate at the small table by the window. The pasta was slightly overcooked, but the mushrooms were crisp at the edges. They discussed whether to visit Marcus’s sister on Saturday and agreed to check the weather before deciding.

Afterward, Elena packed one container for lunch. Marcus washed the pot, and she dried it. The rain continued, steady and unremarkable, while the kitchen returned to order.


Maya unlocked the apartment door with her shoulder, balancing a canvas grocery bag against her hip. From the kitchen, Daniel called, “Is that you?”

“No, it’s the other person with keys.”

He appeared in the hallway, still wearing his work shirt but no shoes, and took the bag. “What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta, if the spinach survived.”

They inspected the plastic container together. A few leaves were dark around the edges. Daniel picked them out while Maya filled a pot with water. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that they had to negotiate space without discussing it. She stepped aside so he could reach the trash; he moved the cutting board when she opened the silverware drawer.

Daniel sliced two cloves of garlic. Maya grated the last of a block of Parmesan and checked the pasta box.

“Half?” she asked.

“More than half. I skipped lunch.”

“You always say that after I start cooking.”

He shrugged and added olive oil to a skillet. The garlic sizzled too quickly, and Maya reached over to lower the burner.

“I had it,” he said.

“It was turning brown.”

“That’s flavor.”

“That’s burned.”

They smiled, the disagreement too familiar to carry any weight. While the spaghetti boiled, Daniel washed the spinach and spun it dry in a dish towel. Maya opened a can of white beans, rinsed them, and added them to the skillet. They stirred in the spinach, then loosened everything with a spoonful of pasta water.

At the table, Daniel sprinkled red pepper flakes over his bowl. Maya tasted hers and got up for salt.

“We need dish soap,” she said, noticing the nearly empty bottle by the sink.

“I’ll add it to the list.”

“And coffee.”

He took out his phone, then paused. “Did you call your sister?”

“Not yet. After dinner.”

They ate with the evening news playing quietly from the living room. Daniel went back for seconds. Maya packed the remaining pasta into a container for her lunch.

When they finished, she washed the plates while he dried them, both of them moving slowly now, the workday finally beginning to loosen its grip.


By six-thirty, the light over the kitchen sink had become brighter than the gray evening outside. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while her husband, Marcus, searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I looked in the door.”

“You looked at the top shelf of the door.”

Marcus crouched and found the bottle behind a jar of pickles. He held it up without comment, and Elena smiled.

They had decided on stir-fry because the chicken needed to be used and neither of them wanted to wait for takeout. Marcus cut the chicken into uneven strips while Elena started rice in the small cooker they had owned since their first apartment. When the machine clicked on, she checked the mail piled beside the fruit bowl.

“Electric bill went up,” she said.

“Air-conditioning.”

“It wasn’t even that hot.”

“It was hot upstairs.”

Marcus heated oil in the skillet. The chicken hissed when he added it, and he stepped back. Elena tipped the peppers and half an onion into a bowl, then mixed soy sauce, honey, and a little vinegar in a measuring cup. They moved around each other without much thought—she opened a drawer as he closed the one above it; he handed her the wooden spoon before she asked.

While the vegetables cooked, Marcus packed the remaining raw chicken for the freezer. Elena rinsed the cutting board and wiped the counter. They discussed whether to drive to his sister’s house on Saturday or Sunday. Saturday would mean traffic; Sunday would mean getting home late.

“Let’s decide tomorrow,” Elena said.

They ate at the kitchen table, with water in mismatched glasses. The rice was slightly sticky, and Marcus had cut one piece of chicken much too thick, but the sauce was good.

Afterward, Elena stored the leftovers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet, leaving it to dry beside the sink. She turned off the kitchen light, and together they carried their glasses into the living room, where the local news was already starting.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and rain. Water ticked against the kitchen window while Elena stood at the counter, slicing a red bell pepper into uneven strips.

“Thin enough?” she asked.

Marcus looked up from the skillet. “They’ll cook.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“They’re perfect,” he said, smiling as he stirred the onions.

They had planned tacos, mostly because a package of tortillas had been sitting in the refrigerator since Sunday. Marcus browned ground turkey with cumin and chili powder while Elena opened a can of black beans and rinsed them in the colander. She found half a lime in the crisper drawer, inspected it, and decided it was still usable.

“Do we have salsa?”

Marcus nodded toward the refrigerator door. “Behind the mustard.”

Elena found the jar nearly empty. She added a spoonful of water, closed the lid, and shook it.

“My mother would object to that,” Marcus said.

“Your mother isn’t trying to stretch salsa until payday.”

He laughed and lowered the heat. Elena warmed the tortillas directly over a gas burner, turning each one with tongs until the edges blistered. One caught briefly, and Marcus reached over to switch off the flame.

“I had it,” she said.

“I know.”

They carried everything to the small dining table: skillet, beans, peppers, shredded cheese, and the rescued salsa. Marcus filled two glasses with tap water and moved a stack of mail from Elena’s chair.

While they ate, they discussed whether the car’s strange noise could wait until Saturday. Elena thought it sounded worse that morning. Marcus agreed to call the mechanic during lunch the next day. Then he mentioned a meeting that had run long, and she told him about a customer who had returned a lamp without its shade.

After dinner, Elena packed the remaining turkey into a container for Marcus’s lunch. He washed the skillet and wiped the stove, carefully circling the burner she had scorched.

“Still think they were perfect?” she asked, pointing to the last pepper strip.

Marcus ate it from the serving spoon.

“Absolutely,” he said.


By six-thirty, Daniel had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Outside the townhouse, rain tapped against the recycling bins. His wife, Maya, came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and her laptop.

“I got broccoli,” she said, setting both on the counter. “It was the only vegetable that didn’t look exhausted.”

Daniel opened the bag. “And lemons.”

“They were on sale.”

They settled on chicken cutlets, broccoli, and couscous. Daniel heated a skillet while Maya cut the broccoli into uneven florets. She tossed the thick stems into a container for soup, then slid the rest onto a sheet pan with olive oil and salt.

“Four hundred?” she asked.

“Already preheated.”

She looked at the display. “To three-fifty.”

“I was getting there.”

While Daniel seasoned the chicken with pepper and paprika, Maya put the groceries away. They talked about the plumber’s estimate, whether to renew the streaming service, and a message from Daniel’s sister about Thanksgiving. Neither wanted to answer it yet.

The chicken sizzled when it hit the pan. Daniel turned on the vent fan, which rattled loudly. Maya measured water for the couscous, added too much, and poured a little back into the sink.

“Precision cooking,” Daniel said.

“You’re using paprika from 2021.”

“It still has color.”

They ate at the small dining table beside a stack of unopened mail. The broccoli was crisp at the edges, and the chicken needed more salt. Maya squeezed lemon over both plates. Daniel went back for the remaining couscous.

“This is good,” she said.

“It’s fine,” he replied, which was what he usually said when he was pleased.

Afterward, Maya packed the extra chicken into a lunch container while Daniel washed the skillet. She dried the plates and nudged the dishwasher shut with her knee. By seven-thirty, the counters were wiped, the leftovers were in the refrigerator, and the rain had slowed. They carried their water glasses to the living room, leaving the question of Thanksgiving for tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, studying the contents of the refrigerator. Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and set a grocery-store flyer on the counter.

“Chicken?” Lena asked, holding up a package of thighs.

Mark opened the pantry. “With rice? We still have broccoli.”

They settled on sheet-pan chicken and broccoli, with rice in the cooker. Lena turned the oven to 425 while Mark rinsed the rice. He measured the water with his finger, the way his father had taught him, and Lena checked the package directions anyway.

“You never trust the finger,” he said.

“I trust it. I also trust printed instructions.”

While the rice cooker clicked on, Lena trimmed the broccoli over the sink. Mark put the chicken on a foil-lined pan and rubbed it with olive oil, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. They debated adding garlic, then added too much.

The mail sat between them: a credit card offer, a utility bill, and a postcard reminding Mark about a dental appointment. Lena read the electric bill while Mark slid the pan into the oven.

“Higher again,” she said.

“We ran the air conditioner all last week.”

“It was ninety-four.”

“I’m not blaming you. I was also present.”

They laughed, and Lena set a timer on her phone.

Twenty-five minutes later, they ate at the small table by the window. The chicken skin was crisp, the broccoli slightly charred, and the rice had stuck to the bottom in one golden layer.

Mark scraped some loose. “Best part.”

Lena passed him the soy sauce. “That is objectively burnt.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. A delivery van stopped across the street. They talked about Lena’s morning meeting, Mark’s unfinished report, and whether they needed laundry detergent.

After dinner, Mark packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Lena loaded the dishwasher, leaving the pan to soak.

“Walk around the block?” she asked.

Mark looked at the clock, then at the pan.

“The pan can wait.”

They turned off the kitchen light and went out together.


At six twenty, Maya came through the apartment door carrying a paper grocery bag against her hip. Daniel looked up from the kitchen table, where his laptop was still open beside a stack of mail.

“I got tortillas,” she said, setting the bag on the counter. “But they were out of the small ones.”

“Large tacos, then.” He closed the laptop and stood. “Or badly folded burritos.”

They decided on chicken tacos with whatever they already had. Daniel took the leftover roasted chicken from the refrigerator and began pulling the meat into a skillet. Maya found half an onion, a lime, and a bunch of cilantro that needed careful sorting.

“This is mostly stems,” she said.

“Stems have flavor.”

“That’s what people say when they don’t want to buy more cilantro.”

While Daniel warmed the chicken with cumin and a spoonful of salsa, Maya diced the onion. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought: she stepped aside for him to reach the cabinet; he handed her a bowl before she asked. The exhaust fan rattled overhead.

Maya opened a can of black beans and poured them into a small pot. Daniel set the table, moving the unopened mail to the windowsill. He filled two glasses with water and added lime wedges.

“Fancy,” Maya said.

“It’s Tuesday.”

They ate at the table with the window cracked open to let out the cooking smell. The tortillas were too large, as predicted, and Daniel overfilled his first one. Chicken and beans dropped onto his plate.

“You made a burrito,” Maya said.

“A structural failure.”

They talked about whether the car needed an oil change and which of them could leave work early on Friday. Maya mentioned a meeting she was dreading. Daniel listened, then offered to make coffee in the morning so she could leave sooner.

After dinner, Maya packed the remaining chicken and beans into one container for lunch. Daniel washed the skillet while she wiped the counter and swept up a piece of onion from the floor.

“Same thing tomorrow?” he asked.

She looked at the leftovers. “Only if we buy smaller tortillas.”

He nodded. “I’ll put it on the list.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned black, reflecting Maya at the stove and Daniel at the counter behind her. Their apartment was warm from the oven, though the February air pressed cold against the glass.

“Chicken’s at one-fifty,” Maya said, closing the oven door. “Ten more minutes?”

Daniel looked up from the cucumber he was slicing. “At least. I’m not repeating the pink-chicken incident.”

“It wasn’t pink. It was… warmly colored.”

He laughed and pushed the cucumber into a bowl with tomatoes and red onion. Maya opened the refrigerator, found half a lemon wrapped in plastic, and tossed it to him. He nearly dropped it.

“Warning would be nice.”

“You saw me.”

“I saw you holding a lemon. That’s not the same thing.”

While Daniel squeezed the lemon over the salad, Maya stirred rice in a small saucepan. It had stuck slightly to the bottom, so she turned off the burner and replaced the lid, hoping the steam would loosen it. She set two plates on the table, moving a stack of unopened mail to the empty chair.

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

“Scheduled it this morning.”

“And call the dentist?”

Daniel paused. “I scheduled the electric bill this morning.”

Maya gave him a look, but she was smiling. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

The chicken reached one-sixty-five. Daniel carved it while Maya spooned rice onto their plates, scraping around the scorched patch. They divided the salad and carried everything to the table.

For a minute, they ate without talking. The chicken was a little dry, and the rice had a faint toasted taste, but the salad was bright and crisp.

“This is good,” Daniel said.

“The cucumber is good.”

“I contributed more than cucumber.”

“You squeezed a lemon.”

“And paid the electric bill.”

Maya nudged his foot under the table. After dinner, they stood together at the sink, Daniel washing and Maya drying. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, the apartment smelled of roasted garlic and dish soap, and tomorrow’s leftovers cooled in a plastic container on the counter.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their Ohio townhouse.

“Four to six minutes,” she said. “That’s not a real range. That’s a guess.”

Marcus set two chicken breasts on the cutting board. “Five minutes, then.”

He patted the chicken dry while Lena heated a skillet. They had planned tacos, but neither of them had remembered to thaw the ground beef. Chicken, rice, and green beans became the backup plan.

“Did you start the rice?” Marcus asked.

Lena stopped pouring oil into the pan. “I thought you did.”

They looked at the empty rice cooker. Marcus laughed and reached for the measuring cup. “Twenty-minute delay.”

“That’s fine. The chicken needs time anyway.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of people who had bumped elbows many times. Lena seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Marcus rinsed the rice, then wiped up the water he had splashed across the counter. When the skillet was hot, Lena added the chicken. It hissed loudly enough that Marcus turned down the podcast playing from his phone.

While the food cooked, he sorted the mail. Lena leaned against the counter and opened the electric bill.

“Higher again,” she said.

“We’ve been running the heat.”

“I know. I’m just noticing.”

Marcus nodded and put the grocery flyers in recycling. Then he checked the chicken with the thermometer while Lena microwaved the green beans. She added butter and garlic powder, tasted one, and added more salt.

They ate at the small table near the living room. The rice was slightly underdone, but the chicken was browned and juicy.

“This is better than tacos,” Marcus said.

“No, it isn’t,” Lena replied, smiling.

They discussed Saturday errands, whether the car needed an oil change, and a neighbor’s missing recycling bin. Afterward, Marcus washed the pans while Lena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. She labeled them with their initials, though they both knew Marcus would take the larger one.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Her husband, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a paper sack from the grocery store.

“They were out of the small tortillas,” he said, setting down the sack. “So I got the medium ones.”

“That’s fine. We’ll call them ambitious tacos.”

Daniel laughed and began sorting the mail into two piles: bills and recycling. Maya heated a skillet and added ground turkey, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon. They had agreed on tacos that morning because both of them had late meetings and neither wanted to make anything complicated.

“Did you get salsa?” she asked.

Daniel stopped sorting. “I thought we had some.”

Maya opened the refrigerator and held up a nearly empty jar. “We have one tablespoon.”

He looked into the grocery bag, then shrugged. “Hot sauce?”

“Hot sauce.”

While the turkey browned, Daniel chopped half an onion and a tomato that had gone slightly soft. Maya seasoned the meat with cumin, chili powder, and salt. She put the green beans in the microwave, though neither of them thought they belonged with tacos.

“They need to be eaten,” she said.

“I’m not arguing.”

Daniel warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs. One edge caught fire, and he blew it out over the sink.

“That one’s yours,” Maya said.

They assembled their plates at the counter and carried them to the small dining table beside the window. Outside, a neighbor walked a golden retriever past parked cars. Daniel told Maya about a mistake in a spreadsheet at work. Maya described a phone call with her sister and reminded him that they needed to buy a birthday card for his mother.

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftover turkey into a container for lunch. Maya rinsed the skillet and loaded the dishwasher. He wiped the table, then handed her the last tortilla, folded around a spoonful of meat.

“Dessert taco,” he said.

She took a bite while standing at the sink. “Needs salsa.”


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their Ohio townhouse, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

“They were out of chicken thighs,” he said. “I got breasts.”

“That’s fine. We’ll cut them in half so they cook faster.”

Marcus set the mail beside the fruit bowl and took down the cutting board. Lena heated the oven and poured the green beans onto a sheet pan. They had planned to make rice, but when she opened the cabinet, the container was nearly empty.

“There’s maybe half a cup,” she said.

Marcus checked the pantry. “Couscous?”

“Works for me.”

While he trimmed the chicken, Lena tossed the beans with oil, salt, and garlic powder. They moved around each other without much discussion, trading the knife, opening drawers, and shifting dirty bowls toward the sink. Marcus seasoned the chicken with paprika and pepper, then cooked it in a skillet. Lena made the couscous and answered a text from her sister about Sunday lunch.

“Can we do one instead of noon?” she asked.

“Please,” Marcus said. “I’d like one morning this weekend where I’m not setting an alarm.”

When the chicken was done, he sliced it to check the center. Lena tasted a green bean and put the pan back in the oven for five more minutes.

They ate at the small kitchen table with glasses of tap water. The chicken was slightly dry, so Lena brought over a bottle of barbecue sauce. Marcus sorted the mail between bites, making a pile for recycling and setting the electric bill near his phone.

“We should pay that tonight,” he said.

“You paid last month. I’ll do it.”

After dinner, Marcus packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Lena loaded the dishwasher while he wiped the stove. They debated whether to watch an episode of their show, then decided they were too tired. By eight, the kitchen was clean, the bill was paid, and they were on the couch, each looking at a phone, their feet touching under the same blanket.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, a delivery truck sighed to a stop in front of their apartment building in Columbus, Ohio.

“Ten minutes in the skillet,” she said.

Marcus set his laptop on the counter and opened the refrigerator. “We still have chicken?”

“Two breasts. I moved them down this morning.”

He found them on the bottom shelf, still cold but thawed, and put a cast-iron pan over medium heat. Lena trimmed a soft spot from a lemon while he patted the chicken dry with paper towels. They had learned, after several smoky dinners, that wet chicken and a hot pan were a bad combination.

“Garlic powder or paprika?” Marcus asked.

“Both. Not too much salt.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed. Lena had a blood pressure appointment the following week and had become newly attentive to labels.

While the chicken browned, she tipped the green beans into a smaller skillet with olive oil. One bounced onto the floor. Marcus picked it up before their cat could investigate.

“Rice?” he asked.

“I thought we had some left.”

They checked the refrigerator together and found a takeout container with barely half a cup. Marcus poured it into a bowl, added a spoonful of water, and covered it with a plate before microwaving it. Lena sliced the lemon and squeezed it over the chicken after he turned off the heat.

They ate at the small table by the window. Marcus took the smaller portion of rice without mentioning it. Lena divided the last of the beans between them.

“This is good,” she said.

“It needed more salt.”

“It did not.”

He smiled and reached for the pepper instead.

Afterward, Lena packed the remaining chicken for her lunch. Marcus filled the sink, and she dried while he washed. They discussed the electric bill, whether they needed detergent, and whose turn it was to call his mother. By seven-thirty, the kitchen was clean except for the cast-iron pan cooling on the stove.


By six-thirty, Elena was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while Marcus stood at the refrigerator, studying its contents as if something new might appear.

“We have chicken,” he said, lifting a container from the bottom shelf. “And half a bell pepper.”

“The pepper’s still good?”

He pressed a thumb against it. “Good enough for a Tuesday.”

They had both come home tired—Elena from the elementary school where she worked as a counselor, Marcus from a day of service calls for the cable company. Their mail sat unopened on the counter beside Elena’s purse and Marcus’s keys.

Elena set the rice cooker and pulled a skillet from the cabinet. Marcus sliced the pepper and an onion while she cut the leftover chicken into strips. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion, trading places at the cutting board and stove.

“Soy sauce or salsa?” Elena asked.

Marcus considered. “Soy sauce. We had tacos yesterday.”

She added oil to the skillet. The onion hissed when it hit the pan, and Marcus opened the window a few inches before the smoke alarm could complain. While Elena stirred, he filled two glasses with ice water and put away the dishes from the drying rack.

They ate at the small table near the living room, the skillet between them. The rice was slightly sticky, and the pepper had softened more than Marcus intended, but the food was warm.

Elena told him about a fourth grader who had spent twenty minutes refusing to return a library book. Marcus described a customer’s dog that had followed him from room to room carrying one of his work gloves.

“Did you get it back?” she asked.

“Eventually. Covered in drool.”

She laughed, then reached for another spoonful of rice.

Afterward, Marcus packed the remaining food into a container for Elena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he wiped the table and checked the weather on his phone.

“Rain tomorrow,” he said.

“I’ll need the car, then.”

He nodded. “I’ll leave the keys by your bag.”

The arrangement settled easily between them, like most things on a Tuesday night.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their townhouse in Ohio.

“Ten minutes,” she said. “That’s my kind of grain.”

Marcus came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. He opened the refrigerator, stared for a moment, then pulled out two chicken breasts and a bag of green beans.

“Chicken again?” Elena asked.

“Unless you want eggs.”

She considered it. “Chicken is fine.”

Marcus heated a skillet while Elena trimmed the beans over the sink. They moved around each other without much thought, trading places at the cutting board and stove. When he reached for the olive oil, she handed it to him before he asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Long. We spent forty minutes deciding to have another meeting.”

He laughed and sprinkled paprika over the chicken. “Productive.”

Elena tossed the beans with oil and salt, then spread them on a sheet pan. “Did you call the plumber?”

Marcus paused. “I emailed him.”

“That means no.”

“It means there’s a written record.”

She gave him a look, but she was smiling.

While the chicken cooked, Marcus sorted the mail into piles: bills, advertisements, and something from their insurance company that neither of them wanted to open. Elena poured the couscous into boiling water, turned off the burner, and covered the pot.

They ate at the small table by the kitchen window. The beans were slightly overdone, and one piece of chicken was thicker than the other, so Marcus cut it in half and traded Elena the better portion.

“This needs lemon,” she said.

“We have lemon.”

“We have a plastic lemon.”

“It’s still lemon-shaped.”

She squeezed some over her couscous anyway.

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers into one container for Marcus’s lunch. He washed the skillet while she loaded the dishwasher. They discussed whether to watch an episode of their show or go to bed early. Neither believed they would choose bed.

When the kitchen was clean, Marcus turned off the light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room as the rain continued steadily outside.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, reading the instructions on a bag of rice for the second time. Their apartment looked west over a row of brick buildings, and the last sunlight made the sink glow.

“Two cups of water,” she said.

Daniel opened the refrigerator and moved a jar of pickles aside. “We have half a bell pepper, three eggs, and something that might have been cilantro.”

“It’s definitely not cilantro anymore.”

He held up the wilted bunch. “Moment of silence.”

They had planned to make tacos, but neither of them had remembered to buy tortillas. Maya rinsed the rice while Daniel searched the freezer and found a bag of mixed vegetables. They agreed on fried rice, though Maya pointed out that freshly cooked rice was not ideal.

“It’ll still be dinner,” Daniel said.

While the rice simmered, he diced the bell pepper and sliced two green onions they found in the crisper. Maya mixed soy sauce, sesame oil, and a little hot sauce in a mug. She tasted it, frowned, and added water.

Daniel heated the large skillet. The vegetables hissed when he poured them in, scattering a few peas onto the stove. Maya swept them up with a paper towel, then cracked the eggs into the cleared side of the pan. They worked around each other without much discussion: he stirred, she brought over the rice, he reached for the sauce, and she handed it to him before he asked.

They ate at the small table by the window. Daniel added more hot sauce. Maya picked out a piece of carrot and said they needed groceries.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” he said.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll make a list tonight.”

She looked toward the kitchen, where the cutting board and skillet waited. “I’ll believe you if you wash the pan.”

Daniel carried both bowls to the sink. “That sounds like a legally binding agreement.”

Maya laughed and began writing a grocery list on the back of an envelope while he turned on the water.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark. Rachel stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while her husband, Mark, searched the refrigerator for the soy sauce.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I’m looking at the door.”

“The top shelf.”

He found the bottle behind a jar of pickles and held it up. “You were right.”

Rachel slid the pepper into a bowl with chopped broccoli. They had planned to make chicken stir-fry, mostly because the chicken needed to be used and neither of them wanted to spend money on takeout again. Mark put a skillet on the stove and added oil while Rachel opened the package of chicken.

“Did you start the rice?” she asked.

Mark froze, then reached for the small saucepan. “I was about to.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

While the rice simmered, Mark cooked the chicken, turning the pieces until they browned. Rachel cleared yesterday’s mail from the small kitchen table, separating a utility bill from grocery coupons and an envelope addressed to the previous tenant.

“Electric bill went up,” she said.

“Heat,” Mark replied. “We can turn it down at night.”

“To what?”

“Sixty-six?”

Rachel considered this, then nodded. “Sixty-seven.”

He added the vegetables to the skillet. They hissed, and Rachel opened the window a crack to keep the smoke alarm quiet. Together they mixed soy sauce, honey, and garlic in a coffee mug, tasting it before pouring it into the pan.

At the table, they divided the rice and stir-fry between two mismatched bowls. Mark got up for water; Rachel brought over the hot sauce.

The broccoli was slightly undercooked, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pan, but the chicken was good. They ate while discussing Saturday errands: the hardware store, the pharmacy, and whether they could postpone vacuuming the car.

Afterward, Rachel packed the leftovers for lunch. Mark filled the sink with soapy water and began washing the skillet.

“You cook tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’ll make pasta.”

“Deal.”

She dried the bowls as he handed them over, and the kitchen gradually returned to how it had looked before dinner.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their Ohio townhouse, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery sack.

“They were out of chicken thighs,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I got drumsticks.”

“That’s fine. Did you remember the rice?”

Marcus pulled out a two-pound bag with a small flourish. “And soy sauce.”

Lena opened the refrigerator and shifted a carton of eggs to make room for the chicken. They had planned to cook something elaborate on Sunday, but now it was Tuesday, and neither of them wanted to spend an hour making dinner.

“Sheet pan?” she asked.

“Sheet pan,” Marcus agreed.

He heated the oven while Lena lined a pan with foil. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen: Marcus patting the drumsticks dry and seasoning them with salt, pepper, and paprika; Lena trimming the ends from the green beans. When she reached for the olive oil, he handed it to her without looking up.

“Twenty-five minutes?” he asked.

“Probably thirty-five for the chicken.”

Marcus checked the package. “You’re right.”

While the food roasted, Lena rinsed a cup of rice, and Marcus washed the cutting board and knife. He told her about a meeting that had run long. She told him their landlord had emailed about inspecting the smoke detectors on Friday.

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Just ‘between nine and four.’”

“Helpful,” he said.

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken skin had browned unevenly, and a few green beans were wrinkled, but the rice was hot and soft. Marcus added soy sauce. Lena squeezed a lemon wedge over her plate.

“This is good,” he said.

“It’s Tuesday good.”

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Lena loaded the dishwasher, turning one bowl sideways so the spray arm could spin. He wiped the stove, and she checked the lock on the back door.

By eight, the kitchen was clean, tomorrow’s lunches were ready, and they were on the couch deciding whether they had enough energy to watch an entire episode of anything.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their duplex in Columbus. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the back door carrying a grocery bag and shaking water from his jacket.

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

“That works.” Lena opened the refrigerator. “We should use the mushrooms before they turn.”

Marcus set a pot of water on the stove while Lena sliced the mushrooms. Their kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit: a hand on a shoulder, a quiet “behind you,” a pause to let the other reach a drawer.

“Spaghetti or penne?” Marcus asked.

“Penne. Easier for leftovers.”

He poured the pasta into the boiling water. Lena sautéed the mushrooms in olive oil, then added the sauce. Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets and spread them on a sheet pan.

“Too big?” he asked.

“Some of them.”

“You can have the small ones.”

She laughed and sprinkled salt over the tray. While the broccoli roasted, Marcus loaded the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Lena wiped the counter and checked the mail they had left beside the toaster. There was a utility bill, a supermarket flyer, and a postcard from her aunt in Arizona.

At the table, they divided the pasta and broccoli between two bowls. Marcus grated Parmesan over both until Lena told him to stop.

For a few minutes, they ate without talking. The rain had grown heavier, and water rushed through the gutter outside.

“This is good,” Marcus said.

“It needed garlic.”

“Everything needs garlic, according to you.”

They discussed whether to call the landlord about the loose porch railing and decided Marcus would do it in the morning. Lena mentioned a meeting she was dreading; Marcus offered to pack the leftovers for her lunch.

After dinner, she washed the pot while he dried it. They left the plates in the dishwasher, turned off the kitchen light, and carried their tea into the living room.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Outside, a delivery truck rattled down their street in Columbus, Ohio, and the neighbor’s dog barked twice before giving up.

“Tomato basil or roasted garlic?” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail under one arm. “Which one expires first?”

Elena checked. “Tomato basil.”

“Then fate has spoken.”

He set the envelopes on the counter and filled a pot with water while Elena took ground turkey from the refrigerator. They had planned tacos, but neither of them wanted to chop lettuce or discover whether the avocados were still usable. Pasta required fewer negotiations.

Marcus salted the water. Elena raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“That was a lot.”

“It’s a big pot.”

“It’s half full.”

He dipped a spoon into the water, tasted it, and added more from the tap. “Corrected.”

While the water heated, Elena browned the turkey with a little olive oil. Marcus found half an onion in a plastic container and diced it, pausing to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. They discussed the electric bill, whether to visit his mother on Saturday, and a loose cabinet hinge he had promised to fix.

“You promised last month,” Elena said.

“I promised to intend to fix it.”

“That part you’ve accomplished.”

They added the sauce and onion to the skillet. Marcus poured in a splash of pasta water because he had seen someone do it online. Elena stirred and admitted it looked better.

They ate at the small table by the window, with grated Parmesan from a green can and two glasses of seltzer. The pasta was slightly soft, but the sauce was good. Marcus opened the mail between bites and found a coupon for the hardware store.

Elena tapped it with her fork. “A sign.”

He folded it into his wallet. “Saturday morning.”

After dinner, Marcus washed the skillet while Elena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. She wiped the counter; he dried the plates. When they turned off the kitchen light, the cabinet door hung crooked above them, waiting patiently.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting the overhead light and the clutter on the counter. Elena set a pot of salted water on the stove while Marcus stood in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have broccoli,” he said, moving a jar of pickles aside. “Somewhat tired broccoli.”

“Roast it,” Elena said. “It’ll be fine.”

Marcus examined the limp stalk, then took out a package of chicken thighs. They had planned to cook on Sunday, but errands had taken longer than expected, and on Monday they had ordered pizza. Now it was Tuesday, and both of them felt responsible for using what they had bought.

Elena poured pasta into the boiling water and checked the clock on the microwave. “I have a call at eight.”

“I’ll do dishes,” Marcus said.

“You did them yesterday.”

“You made the dentist appointments.”

She nodded, accepting the trade.

Marcus trimmed the broccoli and tossed it with oil, salt, and red pepper flakes. Elena cut the chicken into pieces, seasoned it, and cooked it in a wide skillet. When the edges browned, she lowered the heat and added garlic.

“Too much?” she asked.

“There’s no such thing on a weekday.”

They worked around each other in the narrow space, opening drawers, passing the colander, stepping aside without speaking. Marcus drained the pasta while Elena stirred a spoonful of mustard and a splash of cream into the skillet. The broccoli came out darker than intended, crisp at the tips but still edible.

They ate at the small table by the living room, with the evening news muted on television. Marcus added more pepper. Elena picked out the least-charred broccoli pieces and left the blackened ones on the edge of her plate.

“This is good,” he said.

“It’s acceptable.”

“That’s basically good for a Tuesday.”

She smiled and reached across the table for his water glass after realizing she had forgotten her own. While she finished eating, Marcus packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Then he filled the sink, and Elena wiped the stove before going upstairs for her call.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their Ohio townhouse, reading the back of a rice box. Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and a paper bag from the grocery store.

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

“That’s fine. Did you get lemons?”

He lifted one from the bag.

Lena set a saucepan on the stove while Mark sorted the mail into three piles: bills, advertisements, and things they might actually read. He opened the refrigerator and found two chicken breasts thawing on the bottom shelf.

“Pan or oven?” he asked.

“Pan. Faster.”

Mark trimmed the chicken and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Lena measured rice and water, then turned down the burner when the lid began to rattle. They moved around each other without much discussion. When Lena reached for the cutting board, Mark slid it toward her. When he needed the olive oil, she handed it over before he asked.

She cut the broccoli into uneven florets. “Your sister texted me about Sunday.”

“I know. She wants us there at noon.”

“She told me eleven-thirty.”

Mark frowned and wiped his hands on a towel. “We’ll leave at eleven.”

“That means you have to be ready at ten-forty-five.”

“I heard the accusation in that.”

Lena smiled. “Good.”

The chicken browned unevenly because one piece was thicker. Mark covered the pan for a few minutes while Lena steamed the broccoli and squeezed half the lemon over it. They decided the other half could go in the water glasses.

At the table, Mark took the smaller chicken breast without mentioning it. Lena noticed and gave him an extra spoonful of rice.

“This is good,” he said.

“It needs garlic.”

“Everything needs garlic to you.”

They ate while discussing whether the car’s strange noise was urgent and who would call the mechanic. Mark volunteered, and Lena agreed to take the recycling out afterward.

When they finished, she packed the leftovers for lunch. He filled the sink with soapy water. The kitchen window had gone dark, reflecting them side by side as they cleaned.


At six fifteen, Maya heard the garage door rise beneath the kitchen. She was standing at the counter, slicing a yellow bell pepper beside a bowl of chicken thighs she had seasoned with salt, cumin, and garlic powder.

Daniel came in carrying his laptop bag and the mail. “Smells good,” he said, setting both on a chair.

“It doesn’t smell like anything yet.”

“It smells like optimism.”

She pointed at the cutting board. “You can be useful and slice the onion.”

Daniel washed his hands, loosened his tie, and took out another knife. They had planned tacos, but Maya had discovered that the tortillas were stale. Daniel held one up and bent it; it cracked down the middle.

“Rice bowls?” he suggested.

“Rice takes forty minutes.”

“The microwave kind takes ninety seconds.”

They found two packets in the pantry, one brown rice and one cilantro-lime. Maya chose the plain one because the chicken was already heavily seasoned. Daniel put the other packet back and opened a can of black beans.

While Maya cooked the chicken in a skillet, Daniel warmed the beans with a spoonful of salsa. He asked whether she had called the plumber about the slow bathroom drain. She had forgotten. He added it to the shared calendar on his phone, then turned down the beans before they stuck.

They ate at the small dining table near the window, each bowl layered with rice, beans, chicken, peppers, onion, shredded cheese, and the last half of an avocado. Outside, a neighbor walked a golden retriever past their mailbox.

Daniel took a bite. “Better than tacos.”

“Not better. Just available.”

He slid the hot sauce toward her without being asked. She gave him the larger piece of avocado.

After dinner, Daniel washed the skillet while Maya packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch. She wiped the stove, checked that the burner was off, and turned on the dishwasher.

“Tea?” he asked.

Maya looked at the clock. “If you make it.”

He filled the kettle. She carried the mail to the couch, and together they opened an electricity bill, a grocery coupon, and a wedding invitation from someone neither of them had seen in three years.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio. She opened the refrigerator, studied the shelves, and called to her husband.

“We have chicken, half a bag of spinach, and one questionable tomato.”

Marcus came in carrying the mail. “How questionable?”

Elena held it up. One side was wrinkled, but the skin was unbroken.

“Still employed,” he decided.

They settled on chicken tacos. Marcus heated a cast-iron skillet while Elena trimmed the chicken and sprinkled it with salt, cumin, and chili powder. He opened a can of black beans, rinsed them in the colander, and put them in a small saucepan. When he reached for the hot sauce, Elena shook her head.

“Not in the whole pot. I’m taking leftovers tomorrow.”

“You say that like hot sauce doesn’t improve with time.”

“It does not improve a ten o’clock meeting.”

While the chicken cooked, Elena sliced the tomato and found an onion in the pantry. Marcus warmed tortillas directly over the gas burner, turning them with tongs until brown spots appeared. One caught at the edge and smoked.

The alarm began chirping. Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while Elena opened the back door, laughing as cold November air swept into the kitchen.

They carried their plates to the small dining table, pushing aside a stack of grocery coupons and Marcus’s laptop. The tacos were plain but good: chicken, beans, spinach, tomato, onion, and shredded cheese.

Between bites, they compared their days. Elena described a client who had forgotten three passwords. Marcus mentioned the pothole he had hit on the way home and wondered whether the front tire looked low.

“I’ll check it after dinner,” Elena said.

“I’ll come with you.”

They divided the last tortilla, then packed the remaining chicken and beans into a glass container. Marcus washed the skillet while Elena wiped the counters. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked twice. The dishwasher hummed, and the kitchen slowly returned to order.