By five o’clock, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and set six mismatched plates on the dining table. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that she could talk to Marcus while he stood at the stove.

“Did you buy parsley?” she asked.

Marcus paused over the pot of tomato sauce. “I bought cilantro.”

Lena opened the refrigerator, found the bunch, and held it up. “This is definitely cilantro.”

“They were next to each other.”

She laughed. “We’ll survive.”

They were hosting two couples from Marcus’s office, the first guests they’d had since moving in three months earlier. While Marcus adjusted the sauce with salt and a spoonful of sugar, Lena folded paper napkins and moved a stack of unopened boxes from the living room into their bedroom. Then Marcus vacuumed beneath the table while she sliced bread and brushed it with olive oil.

At six twenty, the smoke alarm chirped when the bread began to burn. Marcus waved a dish towel under it, and Lena pulled the baking sheet from the oven.

“Rustic,” he said, examining the dark edges.

“Turn them over.”

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a grocery-store cheesecake. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded into the kitchen at first, talking over the hiss of boiling pasta. Lena filled glasses while Marcus drained the noodles, and together they carried bowls to the table.

Dinner was louder and easier than they had expected. Someone spilled water, Marcus told the story of buying cilantro, and Lena caught him quietly scraping a burned piece of bread into his napkin. After dessert, nobody moved for several minutes.

When the last guests left at ten thirty, Lena locked the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” she said.

Marcus surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and sauce-streaked plates. “Absolutely.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, bumping elbows at the sink. The cilantro remained untouched in the refrigerator. Lena put it in a glass of water, and Marcus labeled it with a sticky note: NOT PARSLEY.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the mail from the dining table, though he had only moved it to the top of the piano. His wife, Lena, noticed but decided not to mention it. She was standing at the kitchen counter in their Ohio townhouse, chopping parsley for the lemon chicken.

“Can you check the potatoes?” she asked.

Daniel opened the oven and leaned back from the heat. “They look pale.”

“They’re potatoes. They are pale.”

“You know what I mean.”

He turned up the temperature, then set out six plates. Lena tasted the sauce, added salt, and handed him a spoon. He tasted it too, nodding seriously.

At six fifteen, the doorbell rang. Their friends Priya and Mark arrived with a bottle of wine, followed a few minutes later by Tasha and her husband, Ben, carrying a bakery box.

“Dessert,” Tasha announced. “Because I don’t trust Ben to bake.”

“I made toast this morning,” Ben said.

While Daniel opened the wine, Lena took coats upstairs and returned to find everyone gathered around the kitchen island. The chicken needed another ten minutes, so she put out olives and crackers. Daniel told the story of their smoke alarm going off during breakfast, exaggerating his own calmness until Lena corrected him.

“You waved a dish towel at it and shouted my name.”

“It was a coordinated response.”

Dinner was slightly late. One batch of potatoes was crisp and the other softer, but nobody complained. Priya asked for the chicken recipe. Mark spilled water and helped Daniel wipe it up. Conversation moved from school taxes to a new grocery store, then to summer travel plans nobody had booked.

After dessert, their friends stayed longer than expected. When the last car pulled away, Lena locked the door while Daniel stacked plates beside the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

Lena looked at the crowded counter and the wine ring on the table.

“It did,” she agreed.

They worked side by side, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher. Daniel found the mail on the piano and laughed. Lena finally mentioned it.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the stack of mail from the kitchen counter and carried the recycling out to the blue bin beside the garage. When he came back, Priya was standing over a pot of lentil soup, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And then you added half a pinch.”

Daniel smiled and reached for the salt cellar. They were expecting four friends at seven, the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the townhouse outside Columbus. The dining room still contained two unopened boxes, so Daniel dragged them upstairs while Priya arranged mismatched plates around the table.

They worked without much discussion. Priya chopped parsley and set out olives. Daniel vacuumed the living room, then discovered the vacuum had left a trail of gray lint along the rug. While he picked it up by hand, Priya called from the kitchen that the bread was browning too quickly.

At six forty, the soup was simmering, the chicken was resting under foil, and both of them had changed clothes. Daniel lit a candle on the table. Priya immediately blew it out.

“It smells like pine trees,” she said. “We’re serving lemon chicken.”

The doorbell rang at seven twelve. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats accumulated on the stair railing. Daniel poured drinks while Priya reheated the soup, and soon everyone was seated, passing bowls and talking about school districts, a delayed flight, and a neighbor’s runaway beagle.

Halfway through dinner, Daniel realized he had forgotten the roasted carrots in the oven. They were wrinkled but edible. Priya put them in a serving dish anyway, and their friend Marcus took seconds.

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

Daniel filled the sink with soapy water. Priya wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter and nodded. “Next time, paper plates.”

Together, they began cleaning.


By five o’clock, Elena had cleared the mail from the dining table, though she left the grocery circular under one leg to stop it from wobbling. In the kitchen, her husband, Mark, stood over a cutting board, slicing mushrooms for the pasta.

“Those are too thick,” Elena said as she passed him with a stack of napkins.

“They’ll shrink.”

“You always say that.”

“And they always do.”

They had invited two other couples for dinner, the first time they’d hosted anyone since moving into the duplex outside Columbus. The place was small, but Elena liked the wide kitchen window and the maple tree in the shared yard. Mark liked that the grocery store was six minutes away.

At six, Elena set out mismatched wineglasses while Mark stirred tomato sauce and checked the bread. The smoke alarm sounded when butter dripped onto the oven floor. Mark waved a dish towel beneath it. Elena opened the back door, laughing as cold March air swept through the kitchen.

Their friends arrived within minutes of one another, carrying wine, salad, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded into the kitchen despite Elena’s efforts to guide them toward the living room.

Dinner was served twenty minutes late. One corner of the garlic bread was burned, and Mark forgot to put out the grated Parmesan until halfway through the meal. Still, the pasta was hot, the mushrooms had shrunk, and nobody seemed to mind the folding chairs at the ends of the table.

Afterward, Elena made coffee while Mark divided the lemon cake into uneven slices. Conversation moved from home repairs to office gossip to a neighbor’s runaway beagle. Someone noticed the table wobbling, and Elena showed them the grocery circular underneath.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Mark loaded the dishwasher while Elena wrapped the remaining cake.

“That went well,” he said.

Elena looked at the crowded sink and the red sauce dried on the stove.

“It did,” she agreed, handing him the last plate.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot simmering on the stove. Elena wiped a clear circle in the glass and looked out at the wet street while Mark stood at the counter, chopping parsley with more concentration than necessary.

“Smaller,” she said, passing behind him with a stack of plates.

“It’s garnish, not confetti.”

Their friends were due at six-thirty: Priya and Sam from across town, and Daniel, who lived two blocks away but was always late. Elena had made chicken stew, the kind her mother used to serve with crusty bread. Mark was responsible for salad, drinks, and keeping the apartment presentable.

He carried a bag of recycling downstairs, then returned shaking rain from his jacket. Elena had moved the shoes from the entryway and lit the candle on the coffee table.

“Too much?” she asked.

“It smells like a pine tree moved in.”

She blew it out, laughing.

At six-fifteen, Mark discovered they had forgotten ice. Elena checked the freezer and found one half-filled tray. While he walked to the corner store, she tasted the stew, added salt, and changed her blouse after splashing broth on the sleeve.

Priya and Sam arrived first, carrying wine and a bakery box. Mark came in behind them with two bags of ice and a bunch of yellow tulips he had bought on impulse. Elena found a jar for the flowers while everyone crowded into the kitchen.

Daniel arrived at seven, apologizing and holding a six-pack. By then, the salad had wilted slightly, but no one seemed to care. They ate at the small dining table with two mismatched chairs pulled in from the bedroom desk and balcony.

Conversation moved from work to rent increases to Sam’s attempt to fix his own dishwasher. Mark brought out dessert, and Elena made coffee. When the last guest left after ten, the apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

Mark stacked the remaining glasses. Elena covered the leftover stew.

“That went well,” he said.

She leaned against him, tired. “Even the parsley.”

He looked at the green flecks scattered across the counter. “Especially the parsley.”


By five-thirty, Daniel had cleared the mail, two library books, and a loose screwdriver from the dining table. He carried everything to the bedroom, where Maya intercepted him.

“You’re not putting that on my dresser.”

“I was going to organize it.”

“You were going to close the door.”

He grinned and took the pile to the hall closet instead.

In the kitchen, Maya tasted the tomato sauce and added salt. They were expecting four friends at seven. Daniel chopped parsley while she assembled a salad, and they moved around each other in the narrow space with the practiced sidesteps of people who had shared it for years.

“Did you get ice?” she asked.

Daniel stopped chopping.

Ten minutes later, he returned from the corner store with two bags of ice and a loaf of bread they did not need. Maya had already set the table with mismatched cloth napkins and the good water glasses. Together they lit two candles, then blew one out because it made the room too warm.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box. Coats collected on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and told everyone about the smoke alarm going off when he toasted walnuts. Maya corrected him: it had gone off twice.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Someone asked for more sauce; someone else dropped a fork. Daniel brought extra chairs from the porch, and Maya divided the last serving of pasta between two plates. The conversation moved from school districts to a new Thai restaurant to whether anyone still watched local news.

After dessert, their friends lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. At the door, Maya handed back a forgotten scarf before its owner reached the sidewalk.

When the apartment was quiet again, Daniel filled the sink with soapy water. Maya wrapped leftovers and wiped crumbs from the table.

“That went well,” he said.

“It did.”

They stood side by side, washing and drying, while outside a bus sighed to a stop at the corner.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the dining table while Mark stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the tomato sauce. They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where the kitchen opened directly into the living room. Every sound carried.

“Smaller pieces,” Elena said, passing with a stack of plates.

Mark looked down. “These are small.”

“One of them is practically a quarter onion.”

He laughed and chopped it again.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Elena set out the blue cloth napkins they rarely used, then noticed a water ring on the table and wiped it with the hem of her apron. Mark browned sausage in the Dutch oven, stirring with a wooden spoon while checking the garlic bread in the freezer.

At six-fifteen, Elena tasted the sauce. “Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

He added a pinch. She reached past him for another and added that too.

The doorbell rang early. Their neighbors, Priya and Daniel, arrived carrying wine and a grocery-store bouquet. Elena found a jar for the flowers while Mark took their coats. Ten minutes later, Luis and Ben came in, apologizing for the rain and holding a bakery box above a dripping umbrella.

Dinner was crowded and warm. Mark served pasta from the stove because the pot was too heavy for the table. Elena kept everyone’s glasses filled and told the story of how they had once locked themselves out on their anniversary. Mark corrected three details, which made the story longer and funnier.

Halfway through dessert, the smoke alarm chirped. The forgotten garlic bread had blackened at the edges. Mark opened the back door while Elena waved a dish towel beneath the alarm. Their friends applauded when it stopped.

After everyone left, the house seemed suddenly quiet. Elena stacked plates; Mark filled the sink with hot water.

“Good dinner,” he said.

“Good onions,” she replied.

He handed her a towel, and together they cleaned the kitchen while rain tapped softly against the windows.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Mara wiped a circle in the glass with her sleeve and watched rain darken the street outside their townhouse in Maryland.

“Do we have enough chairs?” she asked.

Daniel looked up from the dining table, where he was arranging mismatched plates. “Six people, six chairs.”

“One of those is the desk chair.”

“It has a seat and four legs.”

Mara smiled and returned to chopping parsley. They had invited two couples from the neighborhood, friends they usually saw in driveways or at the Saturday farmers’ market. This was the first time everyone had managed to coordinate dinner.

Daniel folded napkins while Mara tasted the soup. It needed salt. He opened a bottle of wine and set a bowl of olives on the coffee table, then moved a stack of mail from the counter into a drawer.

“Temporary filing system,” he said.

The doorbell rang at six thirty. Lena and Rob arrived carrying bread; Priya and Sam followed with a grocery-store cake and wet umbrellas. Daniel took coats and found a vase for the flowers Priya had brought. Mara ladled soup while everyone settled around the table.

Conversation began cautiously—with traffic, school schedules, and a new coffee shop—but loosened as the dishes emptied. Rob told a story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work. Priya laughed so hard she dropped her fork. Daniel refilled water glasses, and Mara brought out the roast chicken, apologizing for the skin being darker than planned.

“It’s not burned,” Sam said. “It’s confident.”

After dinner, they carried plates to the kitchen together. The guests stayed to help, stacking dishes and wrapping leftover cake. By ten, the rain had stopped. Daniel stood at the door while Mara handed out containers of chicken and soup.

When the house was quiet again, they surveyed the crowded sink.

“Tomorrow?” Daniel asked.

Mara picked up the sponge and tossed him a dish towel. “Half tonight.”

He turned on the radio, and they worked side by side.


By five-thirty, the kitchen windows had fogged at the corners. Elena stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce, while her husband, Marcus, arranged mismatched plates around the dining table.

“Six people, six forks,” he said, opening the dishwasher. “We have five.”

“There are clean ones in the drawer by the fridge.”

“That drawer has batteries and takeout menus.”

“Under the batteries.”

He found two forks wrapped in a faded dish towel and held them up triumphantly. Elena laughed and handed him a spoonful of sauce to taste. He blew on it, sampled it, then reached for the salt.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He set the shaker down.

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where the dining room was also Marcus’s weekday office. He carried his laptop upstairs, tucked charging cables behind a potted fern, and moved a stack of mail onto the washing machine. Meanwhile, Elena slid a pan of baked ziti into the oven and checked the salad. She had forgotten cucumbers, but decided no one would care.

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, grocery-store flowers, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the armchair. Marcus poured drinks and introduced Priya, his new coworker, to their neighbors, Ben and Allison. Elena passed around olives while answering questions about the smell coming from the oven.

At dinner, one of the folding chairs wobbled. Marcus fixed it with a folded napkin. The ziti was slightly dry at the edges, but everyone took seconds. Conversation moved from school-board news to bad apartment plumbing to a documentary none of them had finished.

After dessert, their guests helped carry plates to the kitchen. By ten-thirty, the front door had closed behind the last couple.

Elena leaned against the counter, surveying the glasses and sauce-streaked dishes.

“We could leave it,” Marcus said.

They considered this. Then he filled the sink with hot water while she wrapped the leftovers. They worked quietly, bumping elbows once, until the counters were clear and the house belonged to them again.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions and rosemary. Nina stood at the stove, stirring a pot of white beans, while her husband, Marcus, unfolded the dining table they usually kept against the wall.

“Does this look crooked?” he asked.

“It always looks crooked,” Nina said. “The floor is crooked.”

Marcus wedged a folded coaster under one leg and pressed down. Satisfied, he counted the chairs again. They had invited four friends, which meant borrowing two folding chairs from the neighbors upstairs. He went to retrieve them while Nina tasted the beans and added salt.

When he returned, he was carrying the chairs and a bag of ice.

“I forgot we already had ice,” he said, opening the freezer.

“We didn’t,” Nina replied. “That’s frozen spinach.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Marcus sliced bread and arranged it on a baking sheet. Nina rinsed lettuce, then handed him a dish towel after he splashed water onto the floor. He wiped it up with his sock anyway, making her laugh.

Their first guests arrived at seven, bringing a bottle of wine and a supermarket pie. Soon the apartment filled with coats, overlapping conversations, and the scrape of chair legs. Marcus poured drinks while Nina carried the bean stew to the table in the heavy blue pot they had received as a wedding gift.

Dinner was simple but warm. Someone asked for the recipe. Someone else knocked over a glass, and everyone lifted their plates while Marcus blotted the spill. Nina found another towel and told a story about the time they had set off the smoke alarm making toast.

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

Marcus stacked plates. Nina wrapped the remaining bread in foil.

“That went well,” he said.

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

“It did,” she agreed.

They left the dishes soaking, turned off the kitchen light, and carried the leftover pie to the couch.


By five-thirty, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of water boiling on the stove. Elena wiped a circle in the glass and glanced toward the driveway.

“They’re not early, are they?” Marcus asked, carrying in two folding chairs from the garage.

“No. I’m checking whether you remembered to move your car.”

He stopped. “I did not.”

While Marcus went back outside, Elena lowered the heat under the tomato sauce. They were expecting only four friends, but their dining table seated six if nobody minded touching elbows. She had made lasagna, a salad, and garlic bread. Marcus had volunteered to handle dessert, which meant he had bought a pie from the grocery store and hidden the plastic container in the recycling bin.

When he returned, he arranged the extra chairs and set out mismatched cloth napkins. Elena tasted the sauce and held out the spoon.

“Needs salt,” he said.

“It has salt.”

“Then it needs confidence.”

She added a small pinch anyway.

Their first guests, Priya and Daniel, arrived carrying wine and a potted basil plant. Ten minutes later, Sam and Jo came in apologizing for traffic, though everyone knew they lived twelve blocks away. Coats piled on the bed in the spare room. Marcus poured drinks while Elena slid the lasagna from the oven, its edges bubbling over onto the baking sheet.

At dinner, Daniel told a long story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work. Priya asked Elena for the salad dressing recipe. Jo knocked over a water glass, and Marcus caught most of it with his napkin before it reached the floor.

Afterward, Elena made coffee while Marcus served pie, transferring the slices to plates so no one would see the store label. They lingered until nearly eleven.

When the door finally closed behind the last guest, the house seemed unusually quiet. Marcus began stacking plates. Elena wrapped the remaining lasagna.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded sink and the crumbs under the table. “It did.”

They worked side by side, too tired to talk much, passing dishes between them in the warm kitchen.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and roasted tomatoes. Lena stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while her husband, Marcus, carried folding chairs up from the basement.

“Six chairs,” he said, setting the last one beside the table. “Unless Daniel brings someone without telling us again.”

“He said he wouldn’t.” Lena glanced at the table. “Can you find the cloth napkins?”

Marcus opened the hall closet and began moving umbrellas, reusable grocery bags, and a vacuum attachment they had never used. “Blue or white?”

“Blue. The white ones have that stain.”

While Lena stirred the sauce, Marcus set the table, mismatching two forks when he ran out of the good ones. He folded the napkins into uneven rectangles and placed a small jar of supermarket flowers in the center. Lena noticed one chair wobbling, so they slid a folded takeout menu under its shortest leg.

Their friends arrived just after seven, bringing wine, bread, and a lemon cake. Coats piled on the bed. The apartment grew warm and noisy as everyone squeezed around the table.

The pasta was slightly overcooked because Lena had been answering the door, but no one complained. Marcus poured wine and told the story of how he had accidentally joined the wrong video meeting at work. Lena passed the salad, adding details whenever he exaggerated.

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

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the kitchen. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Lena washed while Marcus dried, stacking dishes carefully in the crowded cabinet.

“That went well,” he said.

“You forgot to serve the olives.”

Marcus looked at the unopened jar on the counter. “Tomorrow’s dinner.”

Lena smiled and handed him another plate. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, among crumbs and half-empty glasses, they finished cleaning together.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Daniel had used on the kitchen counters. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of risotto, while his wife, Marisol, moved between the dining table and the narrow hallway closet.

“Six plates, right?” she called.

“Six people total,” Daniel said. “Unless Priya brings someone.”

“She would have texted.”

Marisol set out the blue plates they had bought after moving to Chicago, rejecting one with a small chip. Daniel tasted the risotto and frowned. It needed salt, but he had already added more than the recipe suggested.

Marisol came into the kitchen carrying folded napkins. “Let me try.”

He held out the spoon. She tasted, considered, then reached for the salt.

“I knew it,” he said.

“You were afraid to commit.”

At six fifteen, the chicken was resting under foil, the salad was dressed, and Daniel had changed his shirt after splashing broth on the first one. Marisol lit two candles, then blew one out because the table looked too formal. They had just begun arguing quietly about whether to put on music when the buzzer sounded.

Their friends arrived with wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Priya opened the wine while Marisol found a jar for the flowers. Daniel carried the chicken to the table and nearly dropped the serving fork, catching it against his sleeve.

Dinner unfolded easily. They talked about a delayed train, rising rent, a new supervisor, and the neighborhood dog that escaped twice a week. The risotto thickened as it cooled, but everyone took seconds. Marisol noticed Daniel watching the empty serving dish with relief.

After dessert, their friends helped stack plates before leaving. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel filled the sink with soapy water. Marisol wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” she said.

He handed her a dish towel. “Even with only one candle?”

“Because of only one candle.”

They cleaned side by side, tired and pleased, while the last song on the playlist finished in the living room.


By five o’clock, Elena had cleared the stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where the kitchen was just large enough for two people if they moved carefully.

“Behind you,” Elena said, carrying six mismatched plates to the cabinet.

Marcus shifted toward the stove. “I thought we agreed the blue ones looked intentional.”

“They look intentional until you notice one says ‘Florida.’”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Marcus was making chili, the same recipe he used for weeknight dinners, only doubled and with fresh peppers. Elena mixed cornbread batter and checked the living room for dog hair, though they did not own a dog. Their neighbor’s golden retriever visited often enough to leave evidence.

At six fifteen, Marcus tasted the chili and frowned. Elena handed him the salt without being asked. Then she set out napkins, filled a pitcher with water, and moved a dying houseplant from the windowsill to the bedroom.

The doorbell rang at six fifty-eight. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats accumulated on the bed upstairs. Someone opened the wine while Marcus ladled chili into bowls and Elena cut the cornbread into uneven squares.

Dinner was noisy and comfortable. They discussed a school board election, a delayed flight, and the rising price of groceries. When Marcus realized he had forgotten the sour cream, Elena found plain yogurt in the refrigerator and spooned it into a bowl.

After dessert, everyone remained at the table longer than expected. By eleven, the last guests had left, taking their containers of leftovers.

Marcus began stacking plates. Elena wrapped the remaining cornbread.

“That went well,” he said.

“You burned the first batch.”

“No one knew.”

“I knew.”

He smiled and turned on the faucet. Elena dried while he washed, passing each plate across the small space between them. Outside, a car started and pulled away. Inside, the kitchen slowly returned to normal.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, garlic, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove stirring a pot of tomato sauce while her husband, Daniel, unfolded the dining table’s extra leaf.

“It’s stuck again,” he said, crouching to inspect the wooden track.

“Lift the left side first.”

“I am lifting the left side.”

Maya glanced over. “That’s the right side.”

Daniel sighed, switched hands, and the leaf slid into place. They laughed, then returned to their separate tasks. Six friends were coming at seven. Maya had planned baked ziti, a green salad, and garlic bread. Daniel was responsible for drinks, music, and making the living room look less like they had dropped everything wherever they stood.

He gathered mail from the coffee table, carried two pairs of shoes to the bedroom, and arranged beer and sparkling water in a cooler by the balcony door. Maya tasted the sauce and added salt. When Daniel passed through the kitchen, she handed him a spoon.

“Too acidic?”

He tasted it. “A little.”

She added a pinch of sugar while he grated Parmesan. At six thirty, they realized they had forgotten ice. Daniel ran to the corner market, returning just as the first guests buzzed from downstairs.

The evening settled into a comfortable rhythm. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened wine. Daniel introduced two friends who had never met, while Maya pulled the bubbling pasta from the oven. During dinner, they passed bowls, refilled glasses, and told the story of the broken dishwasher, each correcting the other’s version.

After dessert—store-bought cookies arranged on a plate—the guests lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya wrapped the remaining ziti in foil.

“That went well,” he said.

She leaned against his shoulder for a moment. “Except for the ice.”

“We had ice.”

“Eventually.”

Together, they carried the dishes into the kitchen and started cleaning.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the mail from the dining table while Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. Their friends were due at seven, and the apartment already smelled of garlic, lemon, and the rosemary chicken roasting in the oven.

“Did you buy sparkling water?” Maya asked.

Daniel paused with a stack of envelopes in his hand. “I bought seltzer.”

“That counts.”

He carried the envelopes to the bedroom, then returned to set the table. They had six matching plates but only five matching glasses, so he put the odd blue tumbler at his own place. Maya tasted the sauce, frowned, and added salt.

Outside, rain darkened the street and hissed against the windows. Daniel checked the weather, then texted their friends to say the back entrance was less slippery. Maya handed him a dish towel and asked him to dry the salad bowl.

At six thirty, they changed clothes in shifts. Daniel put on a clean button-down while Maya replaced her flour-dusted sweater with a green blouse. When the doorbell rang early, they looked at each other.

“You get it,” Maya said. “I need three minutes.”

Their friends Lena and Marcus arrived carrying wine and a bakery box. Soon coats were draped over the bed, the kitchen was crowded, and everyone was talking at once. Daniel opened the wine while Maya transferred the chicken to a platter. Marcus helped light the candles after one wick refused to catch.

Dinner was not perfect. The potatoes were softer than Maya intended, and Daniel forgot to put out the butter. Still, Lena asked for the chicken recipe, and the bakery box held six glossy fruit tarts.

After their friends left, Daniel filled the sink with hot water. Maya wrapped the leftovers and stacked them in the refrigerator.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded counter and the wax hardened on the tablecloth.

“It did,” she agreed, handing him a plate. “Next time, we order pizza.”


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the bread Daniel had nearly forgotten in the oven. He pulled the loaf out just before the crust turned black and set it on the stove.

“Rustic,” he said.

Maya glanced over from the table, where she was folding paper napkins. “That’s what people call it when they don’t want to admit it’s burned.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had spent the morning buying groceries, while Daniel cleaned the bathroom and carried two extra chairs up from the basement storage room. Now she stirred a pot of tomato sauce, and he chopped parsley for the salad, stopping every few minutes to check the basketball score on his phone.

“Can you put that away?” Maya asked.

“I’m using it for the recipe.”

“You’re watching highlights.”

He smiled and slid the phone into his pocket.

At six-thirty, they changed clothes and surveyed the living room. The table was crowded but cheerful: mismatched plates, a pitcher of water with lemon slices, and two candles in old jam jars. Daniel dimmed the overhead light while Maya hid a stack of mail in the bedroom.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, everyone talked at once while Maya finished the pasta and Daniel opened bottles, losing the corkscrew twice.

Dinner was louder than they had expected. Someone spilled water. The bread required a serrated knife and determination, but nobody complained. They discussed rent increases, a recent road trip, and whether the neighborhood coffee shop had changed owners.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the sink but left before midnight. Maya stood in the quiet kitchen, looking at the dishes.

“We could leave them,” Daniel said.

She handed him a towel. “We could also finish in ten minutes.”

He washed while she dried. When the last plate was stacked, they sat on the couch with the remaining wine.

“Good dinner,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against him. “Rustic bread and all.”


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Elena wiped a clear patch with her sleeve and checked the driveway, though their friends weren’t due for another hour.

“Stop looking,” Marcus said, carrying in two folding chairs from the garage. “They’ll come.”

“I know they’ll come. I’m checking whether you moved the recycling bin.”

He glanced outside. “I did not.”

Together they went out into the cold Ohio evening. Marcus rolled the bin behind the fence while Elena shook crumbs from the welcome mat. Back inside, they divided the remaining work without discussing it. She dressed the salad; he set the table. She found the cloth napkins in the wrong drawer; he admitted using them to wrap wine bottles during their move three months earlier.

At six fifteen, the doorbell rang. Priya and Daniel arrived with apple pie and a six-pack, followed by Tasha, who apologized for being late despite being exactly on time.

Marcus took coats upstairs while Elena poured drinks. The roast chicken needed another ten minutes, so everyone stood around the kitchen island eating almonds and talking about a broken traffic light downtown. When the smoke alarm chirped, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it, and Elena opened the back door, laughing.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. Daniel asked for the chicken recipe. Elena pointed at Marcus.

“He did the seasoning.”

“She did everything else,” Marcus said.

Afterward, Priya helped stack plates while Tasha cut the pie. Marcus made coffee, miscounted the scoops, and quietly started over. By ten, the guests had gone, leaving damp rings on the table and half a slice of pie.

Elena leaned against the counter. “That went well.”

Marcus handed her a fork. They ate the last slice standing up.

“Next time,” he said, “we use paper napkins.”

“Next time,” she replied, “you’re moving the recycling bin before I ask.”

He nodded. “Fair.”


By five o’clock, Daniel had pushed the dining table against the window and added the extra leaf. It stuck halfway, as it always did, so he crouched underneath and jiggled the metal track while his wife, Maya, pulled from the other end.

“Try now,” he said.

Maya tugged, and the leaf snapped into place. “Every time, we act surprised.”

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where the kitchen opened directly into the dining room. Maya returned to the stove and stirred a pot of tomato sauce. Daniel set out six mismatched plates, rejecting one with a chip along the rim.

Their friends were due at seven. Maya had made baked ziti because it could wait in the oven, and Daniel was assembling a salad. He sliced cucumbers too thick, and she reached over to demonstrate.

“They’re cucumbers,” he said. “No one’s grading them.”

At six fifteen, they realized they had forgotten ice. Daniel drove to the gas station while Maya changed her shirt after splashing sauce on the sleeve. He came back with two bags of ice and a package of cookies.

“I made dessert,” she said, pointing to the covered apple crisp.

“These are backup.”

The doorbell rang at seven ten. Lena and Chris arrived first, carrying wine. A few minutes later, Jamal and Priya came in with flowers wrapped in grocery-store plastic. Daniel found a jar for them while Maya took the ziti from the oven.

Dinner unfolded easily. Chris told a story about getting locked out of his office. Priya asked for the recipe, and Maya admitted the sauce came from two jars, improved with garlic and red pepper. Daniel passed the salad and quietly removed an empty bottle from the table.

After dessert, everyone stayed longer than expected. Coats were finally gathered near eleven.

When the door closed, Maya leaned against it. The dining room was crowded with glasses and crumpled napkins.

“I’ll wash,” Daniel said.

“I’ll dry.”

They worked without hurrying, listening to the dishwasher start and the house settle back into its usual quiet.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon-scented cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood over a pot of soup, tasting it with a wooden spoon, while her husband, Daniel, dragged the vacuum around the living room.

“Did you get under the couch?” she called.

“I got near the couch,” he said.

Maya laughed and added another pinch of salt. They were expecting four friends at seven. Nothing elaborate: roast chicken, potatoes, salad, and the soup Maya had decided to make at the last minute.

Daniel finished vacuuming and set the table with their mismatched plates. He folded the cloth napkins into rectangles, then unfolded them when they looked too formal. In the kitchen, Maya discovered they were out of butter.

“I’ll go,” Daniel said, already reaching for his keys.

“Get ice, too.”

At the neighborhood grocery store, he added butter, ice, and a bunch of tulips to the basket. When he returned, Maya was crouched in front of the oven, worried that the chicken was browning too quickly. Daniel lowered the rack while she wrapped the tulips in a blue pitcher.

Their first guests arrived ten minutes early, carrying wine. Soon the apartment filled with damp coats, greetings, and the scrape of chairs. Daniel poured drinks and took the chicken out to rest. Maya warmed the soup and passed bowls around the table.

Dinner was not perfect. One batch of potatoes stuck to the pan, and someone knocked over a glass of water. Daniel fetched towels while Maya moved the breadbasket out of the spill. Nobody seemed bothered. Their friends asked for seconds.

After dessert, they lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed behind the last guest, Maya leaned against it, tired.

“That went well,” Daniel said, stacking plates.

She looked at the crowded sink and the crumbs under the table. “It did.”

They cleaned together, moving quietly around each other in the small kitchen. Daniel washed; Maya dried. Before bed, they left the final pot soaking and turned off the lights.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Daniel had used on the kitchen counters. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, while his wife, Maya, carried mismatched wineglasses from the cabinet to the dining table.

“Six glasses, four chairs,” she said.

Daniel glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll get the folding chairs from the hall closet.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I was waiting for the sauce to reach a safe emotional state.”

Maya smiled and unfolded the cloth napkins they used mostly for holidays. Their friends Nina and Paul were coming, along with Maya’s coworker Elise. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the apartment outside Philadelphia, and both of them had spent the afternoon noticing things they normally ignored: dust on the baseboards, a burned-out bulb above the sink, a stack of mail beside the microwave.

While Daniel fetched the chairs, Maya dressed the salad. She tasted it, added salt, then wiped a spot of oil from the rim of the bowl. Daniel returned with two metal chairs and a board game he had found on the closet shelf.

“No one wants a three-hour strategy game after lasagna,” Maya said.

“We’ll let democracy decide.”

The doorbell rang at six thirty, just as Daniel realized he had forgotten to warm the bread. Maya greeted their guests and took coats while he switched on the oven. Nina brought flowers; Elise carried a bakery box; Paul arrived with two bottles of wine and an apology about parking.

Dinner was noisy and slightly crowded. One chair wobbled, the lasagna stuck to the pan, and Daniel dropped a serving spoon. Still, everyone asked for seconds. Maya told the story of their moving truck getting lost, and Daniel corrected details until she kicked him gently under the table.

After dessert, they played cards instead of the board game. By ten, the guests had gone.

Daniel filled the sink with hot water. Maya stacked plates beside him.

“That went well,” he said.

She handed him a glass. “Even without democracy.”

Together, they washed the dishes in the quiet apartment.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Mara stood at the kitchen counter, chopping parsley, while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Try it now,” he said.

Mara sat down carefully. The chair held.

“Excellent,” she said. “No lawsuits tonight.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Daniel had spent the afternoon making chicken stew, following a recipe from his mother, while Mara baked a chocolate cake that had sunk slightly in the middle. She covered the dip with whipped cream and raspberries.

Daniel set out the mismatched wineglasses they had collected over the years. Mara folded cloth napkins, then unfolded them when she decided they looked too formal.

At six thirty, Daniel changed his shirt after noticing a streak of tomato sauce near the collar. Mara opened the window to clear the kitchen steam, but closed it again when cold November air swept through the room.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread from the bakery downstairs. Coats piled up on the bed. The apartment quickly grew warm and noisy.

During dinner, Daniel served the stew while Mara passed bowls of rice and roasted carrots. One guest asked for the recipe, and Daniel admitted he had called his mother twice to confirm the amount of paprika. Mara told everyone about the smoke alarm going off when she roasted the carrots, and Daniel pointed out that he had been the one waving a dish towel beneath it.

Afterward, they moved to the living room with cake and coffee. The cake’s sunken center drew compliments because it held extra whipped cream.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Mara gathered glasses while Daniel wrapped the remaining bread and stacked plates beside the sink.

“Good night?” he asked.

Mara looked at the crowded counter, the empty serving pot, and the flowers leaning crookedly in a water pitcher.

“Very good,” she said.

They washed the dishes together, Daniel scrubbing and Mara drying, while the apartment slowly became quiet again.


By five-thirty, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Mara wiped a circle in the glass with her sleeve and looked out at the row of wet backyards behind their house in Columbus.

“Dan and Priya will be here in an hour,” she said.

Eli glanced up from the cutting board. “That sounded like a warning.”

“It was a weather report.”

He smiled and returned to chopping parsley. They had divided the work that morning: Mara would make chicken and rice; Eli would handle the salad, drinks, and dessert. The dessert was a grocery-store pie, but he had transferred it to a ceramic plate so it looked homemade from a distance.

While Mara lowered the heat under the chicken, Eli carried recycling to the garage and brought in two folding chairs. Their dining table seated four comfortably, and six only if nobody objected to bumping knees. He wiped the chairs with a damp dish towel while Mara set out mismatched cloth napkins.

At six-ten, she tasted the rice and frowned. “Too salty.”

Eli took a spoonful. “A little.”

“That means yes.”

He added unsalted stock, and she spread the rice into a larger dish. They worked without discussing it, the way they handled minor household emergencies.

The doorbell rang at six-thirty-two. Dan and Priya arrived with a bottle of wine; their friend Leah came moments later carrying flowers wrapped in brown paper. Eli found a jar for the flowers while Mara took coats upstairs.

Dinner was crowded and warm. Dan knocked his fork onto the floor twice. Priya asked for the chicken recipe, and Mara admitted she had combined three online versions. Eli forgot the salad in the refrigerator until everyone was halfway finished, then served it anyway.

After pie, they lingered over coffee until nearly ten. When the last guest left, Mara leaned against the closed door.

“That went well,” Eli said.

She looked toward the kitchen, where plates covered every surface.

“It did,” she agreed. “We’ll clean tomorrow.”

They turned off the porch light and left the dishes where they were.


By five-thirty, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Nina stood at the counter chopping parsley while her husband, Eric, crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked done.

“It needs ten minutes,” Nina said without looking up.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And I was right then, too.”

Eric closed the oven and set the timer. They were expecting four friends at seven, and although they had hosted dinners before, they always behaved as if the health department might arrive first. Nina wiped the counters twice. Eric counted the clean wineglasses, discovered they had only five matching ones, and put out a blue tumbler for himself.

Their house outside Columbus was small enough that the dining table had to be pulled away from the wall. Together they carried it six inches toward the living room, bumping one leg against the floor vent. Eric arranged the chairs while Nina folded paper napkins into plain rectangles.

At six-forty, the doorbell rang. It was Maya and Joel, early, carrying a bakery box. Ten minutes later, Priya and Sam arrived with two bottles of wine and an apology about traffic.

Soon coats covered the guest-room bed, and the kitchen filled with overlapping conversation. Nina stirred the sauce while Maya grated cheese. Eric opened wine, burned his thumb on the roasting pan, and accepted a bag of frozen peas from Priya.

Dinner was slightly late. The chicken was good, though one side was darker than intended, and the salad had too much dressing. No one complained. They talked about a neighbor’s runaway beagle, rising rent downtown, and a television show everyone had watched except Eric.

After dessert, Sam helped stack plates while the others lingered at the table. By eleven, the front door had closed behind the last guest.

Nina leaned against the counter, surveying the glasses and crumbs.

“Successful?” Eric asked.

She handed him a dish towel. “Ask me after cleanup.”

He turned on the faucet, and she began scraping plates beside him.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the mail from the dining table and hidden the unopened envelopes in the desk drawer. In the kitchen, his wife, Maya, stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“It needs something,” she said.

Daniel opened the spice cabinet. “Salt?”

“I already added salt.”

He handed her the red pepper flakes. She shook in a little, then pointed toward the living room. “Can you vacuum before they get here?”

While Daniel pushed the vacuum around the couch, Maya rolled meatballs between her palms and arranged them on a baking sheet. He returned to the kitchen carrying two abandoned coffee mugs and a sock he had found under the armchair.

“Yours?” he asked.

Maya glanced at the sock. “Probably.”

At six, the apartment smelled of garlic and roasted tomatoes. Daniel set the table with their mismatched plates, placing the chipped blue one at his own seat. Maya changed her shirt after splattering sauce on the first one, then lit a candle in the bathroom because the overhead light was too harsh.

Their friends, Lena and Marcus, arrived ten minutes late with a bottle of wine and a paper bag from a bakery. Daniel took their coats while Maya stirred the pasta and called for everyone to sit down.

Dinner was noisy and comfortable. Marcus told a story about missing a flight in Denver. Lena asked Maya about her new supervisor. Daniel refilled glasses and brought the salad from the refrigerator only after everyone had nearly finished eating.

“You forgot it,” Maya said, smiling.

“I was saving it for the second course.”

After dessert, they moved to the living room. The candle burned low while rain tapped against the windows. At eleven, their friends finally left.

Daniel locked the door. Maya began stacking plates, but he took them from her.

“You cooked,” he said. “I’ll wash.”

She dried while he scrubbed, and they talked about the evening in low voices. When the last glass was put away, Maya leaned against him for a moment. The apartment was messy again, but pleasantly so.


By five o’clock, Elena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and spread a clean tablecloth over the dining table. Her husband, Marcus, stood at the sink rinsing bunches of parsley, his sleeves pushed to his elbows.

“Did you get sparkling water?” Elena asked.

Marcus stopped. “I got wine.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He dried his hands, grabbed his keys, and headed back to the neighborhood grocery store. While he was gone, Elena checked the chicken roasting in the oven, lowered the heat, and tasted the lentils. They needed salt. She added a pinch, then another, thinking of their friend Priya, who always noticed seasoning.

Marcus returned with two bottles of sparkling water and a bag of ice. Together they finished the salad—Elena slicing pears while Marcus toasted walnuts in a skillet. One batch burned while he answered a text from Daniel asking if he should bring anything.

“Tell him dessert,” Elena said, opening a window to let out the smoke.

At seven, the doorbell rang. Priya and Daniel arrived first, carrying a bakery box. Their friends Noah and Sam followed ten minutes later with flowers wrapped in brown paper. Marcus found a jar for the flowers while Elena took coats and directed everyone toward the living room.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. Marcus carved the chicken at the table, passing uneven pieces around while Elena spooned lentils into bowls. Daniel told a story about getting locked out of his apartment in slippers. Priya asked Elena for the salad recipe. Noah spilled sparkling water, and everyone lifted plates while Marcus wiped the table with a dish towel.

After dessert, the guests lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment seemed suddenly quiet.

Elena began stacking plates. Marcus turned on the faucet and filled the sink with soapy water.

“The chicken was dry,” he said.

“A little,” she admitted, handing him a plate. “But the walnuts were excellent.”

“The second batch.”

“The only batch anyone knew about.”

They cleaned side by side, tired and pleased, leaving the last two wineglasses on the counter for morning.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the stack of mail from the dining table while Priya stood at the kitchen counter, chopping carrots into uneven coins.

“Those are getting bigger,” he said, carrying the recycling toward the back door.

“They’re rustic,” Priya replied. “Check the chicken.”

Daniel opened the oven and leaned back from the heat. The skin had browned faster than expected, so he lowered the temperature and covered the pan loosely with foil. Priya tasted the lentils, added salt, then wiped a splash of tomato from the stove.

They were expecting four friends at seven. At six fifteen, Daniel realized they had forgotten ice. He drove to the corner store while Priya changed her shirt and arranged grocery-store flowers in a ceramic pitcher. When he returned, he also had sparkling water and a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels.

“We already have dessert,” she said.

“We have cake. This is different.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine and a loaf of bread. Coats piled on the bed in the guest room. Daniel poured drinks while Priya reheated the lentils, and everyone gathered in the kitchen despite the cleared living room.

At dinner, one chair wobbled. Daniel folded a paper napkin and slid it beneath the short leg. Priya carved the chicken, passing slices around the table while their friend Melissa described her new supervisor. Someone spilled water, and two people reached for towels at once.

The carrots were soft, the bread was warm, and the chicken was slightly dry. Nobody seemed to mind. They talked about rent increases, a planned camping trip, and a neighborhood dog that had learned to open gates.

After the cake, their friends helped carry plates to the sink. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel filled the dishwasher while Priya wrapped leftovers.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter and the wineglasses still waiting to be washed. “It did.”

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


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Nina stood at the counter chopping parsley while her husband, Eric, crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken was browning or burning.

“Browning,” Nina said without looking up.

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I can smell the difference.”

Eric shut the oven and set the timer for fifteen minutes. Their friends Maya and Luis were due at six, and the dining table was still covered with mail, a laptop, and two clean towels that had never made it to the linen closet.

They worked in practiced circles around each other. Eric cleared the table and carried recycling downstairs. Nina whisked dressing, tasted it, and added salt. When he returned, she handed him plates.

“The blue ones,” she said.

“One of them is chipped.”

“Put that one at my seat.”

At six-ten, the buzzer sounded. Maya arrived holding a bottle of wine, with Luis behind her balancing a bakery box. Coats were draped over the back of the sofa, and everyone gathered in the kitchen, where the chicken needed “just five more minutes.”

Eric opened the wine while Nina tossed the salad. Luis told them about a stalled train that had emptied everyone onto a cold platform. Maya peeked into the oven and agreed with Nina that the chicken was browning.

At the table, they passed roasted potatoes and talked about rent increases, a neighbor’s barking dog, and whether they should plan a summer trip together. Eric spilled water near his plate, and Nina silently handed him a dish towel. Later, she forgot the dessert plates, so he brought them out with four mismatched forks.

After their friends left, the apartment seemed unusually quiet. Nina wrapped the remaining chicken while Eric loaded the dishwasher.

“That went well,” he said.

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

He turned on music from his phone, and together they finished the dishes.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions and rosemary. Daniel stood at the stove, browning chicken thighs in a heavy skillet, while his wife, Mara, cleared a week’s worth of mail from the dining table.

“Do we need to keep this?” she asked, holding up a coupon for an oil change.

Daniel glanced over his shoulder. “Put it on the fridge. I’ll forget otherwise.”

“You’ll forget with it on the fridge.”

“Probably.”

They had invited two other couples for dinner, nothing formal, but Mara still changed the tablecloth after noticing a coffee stain near one corner. Daniel carried folding chairs up from the basement and wiped dust from their seats with a dish towel. Together they set out mismatched wineglasses, water tumblers, and the blue plates they had bought when they first moved in.

At six, Mara tasted the salad dressing and added more lemon. Daniel lowered the oven temperature, then opened the windows after the smoke alarm chirped twice. They argued briefly about whether the chicken was done, solved it with a meat thermometer, and laughed when Daniel admitted Mara had been right.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, bread, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker in the living room, and quiet music played beneath the conversation.

At dinner, Daniel carved the chicken while Mara passed roasted potatoes and refilled water glasses. They talked about school districts, a delayed flight, and a neighbor’s barking dog. When one guest spilled wine, both Mara and Daniel reached for towels at the same time.

Later, everyone moved to the living room with pie and coffee. By ten-thirty, the last guests had gone. The apartment was warm and untidy, with plates stacked beside the sink.

Daniel washed while Mara dried. She handed him the oil-change coupon, which had fallen from the refrigerator.

“See?” she said.

He tucked it into his wallet. “Now I definitely won’t forget.”

Mara smiled and turned off the dining room light.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of water boiling on the stove. Elena stood at the counter chopping parsley while her husband, Mark, carried extra chairs up from the basement.

“Four chairs, four guests,” he said, setting them around the dining table. “Unless you invited someone else.”

“I did not.” Elena glanced at the grocery bag near the refrigerator. “Did you get lemons?”

Mark stopped. “I got limes.”

She looked at him, then at the chicken marinating in garlic and olive oil.

“I’ll go back,” he said.

“No, limes are fine. We’ll call it intentional.”

While Elena browned the chicken, Mark set the table with their everyday plates and the cloth napkins his mother had given them. One had a faint coffee stain, so he folded it inward. He filled a pitcher with water and lime slices, then swept crumbs from beneath the table.

Their friends arrived at six-thirty: Nina and Paul carrying wine, and Greg and Tasha with a bakery box. Coats collected on the bed in the spare room. The apartment quickly grew warm and noisy.

Mark opened the wine while Elena finished the rice. When she discovered it had stuck to the bottom of the pot, she whispered, “Don’t say anything.”

“I would never betray you,” he said, scraping the good rice into a serving bowl.

At dinner, Paul told a story about getting locked out of his car at a gas station. Tasha asked for the chicken recipe, and Elena admitted the lime had been an accident.

“Best part,” Greg said.

After dessert, everyone lingered over coffee until nearly ten. When the door finally closed behind the last guest, Elena leaned against it and exhaled.

Mark carried plates to the sink. “Successful?”

“No one saw the burnt rice.”

“They ate all of it.”

Together they loaded the dishwasher, passing glasses and forks back and forth. The apartment was quiet again, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the dishwasher beginning its cycle.


By five o’clock, Elena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and set out six mismatched cloth napkins. Her husband, Marcus, stood at the stove in their small Ohio townhouse, stirring tomato sauce with a wooden spoon.

“Needs salt,” he said.

Elena tasted it. “It needs another twenty minutes.”

They had invited two couples from the neighborhood for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving in. While Marcus chopped basil and checked the lasagna, Elena vacuumed the living room, stopping twice to move the same stack of magazines from the coffee table to a shelf and back again.

At six, Marcus realized they had forgotten ice. He walked to the corner store while Elena changed a burned-out bulb over the dining table. When he returned, carrying two bags, she was standing on a chair.

“You could’ve waited,” he said, steadying the chair.

“I could’ve,” she agreed, twisting in the new bulb.

Their guests arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, a bakery pie, and a potted rosemary plant. Coats piled on the bed upstairs. Marcus poured drinks while Elena introduced everyone, though they had all waved across driveways before.

Dinner was slightly late. The lasagna stuck to the pan, and Marcus had to pry out the first piece in layers. Elena passed the salad and admitted she had forgotten to toast the bread. No one seemed to mind. Conversation moved from property taxes to school bus routes, then to a raccoon that had learned to open someone’s trash bin.

After dessert, one guest helped Marcus carry plates to the kitchen while Elena packed leftover pie into foil. By ten, the front door had closed behind the last couple.

The dining room looked worse than it had before they started: crumbs under the table, glasses everywhere, sauce dried on a serving spoon.

Marcus turned on the faucet. “Successful?”

Elena gathered the napkins and smiled. “They stayed for coffee.”

He handed her a dish towel, and they cleaned the kitchen together, talking about whom they should invite next time.


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

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

“Three-seventy-five,” Maya said. “We’ve lived here six years.”

“And the numbers have been gone for five.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Daniel slid a pan of chicken thighs into the oven, then cleared grocery receipts and unopened mail from the dining table. Maya mixed salad dressing in a jam jar and shook it over the sink after the lid leaked once.

At six-thirty, they changed clothes in shifts. Daniel lit two candles and immediately blew one out because it smelled too strongly of pine. Maya set mismatched cloth napkins beside the plates and counted forks twice.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, a loaf of bread, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Daniel poured drinks while Maya reheated the sauce. When the smoke alarm chirped, everyone looked up.

“It’s not dinner,” Daniel said. “Probably.”

The chicken had browned more than planned, but it was still juicy. They squeezed around the table, passing potatoes and salad from hand to hand. Conversation moved from a new manager at work to rising rent, a neighbor’s loud dog, and whether anyone had watched the latest crime series. Maya noticed Daniel quietly give their friend Luis the last crispy potato, though Daniel had been saving it.

After dessert, their guests helped carry plates to the sink. Someone left half a glass of wine on the windowsill. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Daniel filled the sink with soapy water while Maya wrapped the remaining cake.

“That went well,” she said.

“You mean no one called for takeout.”

“Exactly.”

He washed; she dried. When they finished, they stood together in the kitchen, tired and pleased, listening to the refrigerator hum. On the table, a few crumbs glittered in the candlelight.


By five o’clock, Nina had cleared the stack of mail from the dining table, though she had only moved it to the desk in the living room. Her husband, Paul, came in from the grocery store carrying two paper bags against his chest.

“They were out of basil,” he said.

Nina looked up from arranging mismatched napkins. “Did you get parsley?”

Paul set the bags on the counter. “I got cilantro.”

They stared at each other, then laughed. The recipe called for neither.

Their friends, Mark and Elise, were due at six-thirty. Nina chopped onions for the tomato sauce while Paul vacuumed the rug, stopping twice to untangle a shoelace from the roller. He set the table, placing the chipped plate at his own seat, and Nina tasted the sauce.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

Paul added a pinch.

At six-fifteen, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Nina changed her shirt after splashing sauce on the first one. Paul lit a candle, decided it was too scented, and blew it out just as the doorbell rang.

Elise arrived with a bottle of wine, and Mark carried a bakery box tied with string. Coats were draped over the arm of the sofa. In the kitchen, everyone talked at once while Paul drained the pasta and Nina searched for the serving spoon.

Dinner was simple: spaghetti, salad, bread, and a slightly overcooked tray of roasted vegetables. Mark told a story about getting locked out of his office. Elise asked Nina about her new supervisor. Paul refilled glasses and brought the forgotten Parmesan from the refrigerator.

After dessert, they lingered over coffee until nearly ten. When the door finally closed behind their friends, Nina leaned against it.

“That went well,” she said.

Paul surveyed the crowded table and the sauce-splattered stove. “Absolutely.”

They carried plates to the sink together. Nina washed while Paul dried, and they split the last piece of cake standing at the counter.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the mail from the dining table and hidden a stack of unopened envelopes in the hall closet. In the kitchen, his wife, Marisol, stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“It needs salt,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

Daniel added a pinch while Marisol chopped parsley. They were expecting four friends at seven: a couple from next door and two coworkers from Marisol’s clinic. It was the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the small Ohio townhouse.

Daniel vacuumed the living room, stopping twice to untangle the cord from a chair leg. Marisol set out mismatched wineglasses and folded paper napkins beside each plate. When Daniel suggested candles, she pointed to the smoke detector directly above the table.

“Good point,” he said, returning them to the drawer.

At six forty-five, the garlic bread was already browning too quickly. Daniel pulled it from the oven while Marisol changed her shirt after splashing sauce on the first one. The doorbell rang as she came downstairs, still fastening an earring.

Their guests arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed upstairs. For the first few minutes, everyone stood in the kitchen, talking over one another while Daniel searched for the corkscrew.

Dinner was simple: baked ziti, salad, and the slightly dark garlic bread. Marisol asked about a neighbor’s new job. Daniel told a story about getting locked out of the garage, and she corrected the parts he exaggerated. Someone spilled water, and everyone lifted their plates while Daniel wiped the table.

After dessert, the group lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the house seemed suddenly quiet.

Marisol gathered glasses. Daniel began wrapping leftovers.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded sink and smiled. “Ask me after we clean up.”

He turned on the faucet, and she handed him the first plate.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Elena stood at the counter in socks, chopping parsley for the pasta, while Marcus carried extra chairs up from the basement.

“Six chairs, right?” he called from the hallway.

“Seven. Priya said she might bring Daniel.”

Marcus reappeared, balancing two folding chairs against his shoulder. “That means eight, including us.”

Elena looked around the kitchen as if another chair might materialize. “The desk chair?”

“It has wheels.”

“Then Daniel gets an exciting dinner.”

They laughed, and Marcus went to retrieve it.

Their townhouse outside Baltimore was narrow, so hosting required rearrangement. Marcus pushed the coffee table against the wall and extended the dining table with a leaf they used twice a year. Elena set mismatched plates at each place, pausing to wipe a water spot from a wineglass with her apron.

At six, the sauce tasted too sharp. Marcus stirred in a spoonful of butter while Elena checked the bread. The bottom had burned slightly.

“We’ll slice that part off,” she said.

“We’ll call it rustic.”

The doorbell rang at six-thirty. Priya arrived alone, carrying flowers and apologizing for Daniel’s cold. Soon after came Owen and Luis with a bag of ice, followed by Beth, who brought a pie still warm from the bakery.

Marcus took coats upstairs while Elena found a jar for the flowers. Everyone crowded into the kitchen despite the chairs waiting in the next room. Priya grated cheese; Owen opened wine; Luis told a story about getting stuck behind a school bus.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. The desk chair rolled backward whenever Beth leaned away from the table, and the pasta cooled faster than Elena expected. Still, people took seconds.

After dessert, their friends helped stack plates before leaving. By eleven, the house was quiet again.

Marcus washed while Elena dried. She held up the scorched bread tray.

“Soak it,” he said.

She set it in the sink and leaned against him. Around them were half-empty glasses, crumbs, and seven used plates.

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

Elena smiled. “You always say that.”

Together, they turned off the kitchen lights.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Maya wiped a circle in the glass with her sleeve and checked the driveway, though their friends weren’t due for another hour.

“Stop looking,” Daniel said, carrying in two folding chairs from the garage. “They won’t arrive early. Nobody arrives early.”

“Claire does.”

“Claire arrives exactly when she says she will, which only feels early.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their Ohio townhouse since repainting the dining room. Daniel unfolded the chairs and tested each one with his weight. Maya stirred the sauce, tasted it, and handed him the spoon.

“Salt?”

He considered. “A little.”

“You always say that.”

“And yet you always ask.”

While Maya chopped parsley, Daniel set the table with mismatched wineglasses and the cloth napkins they usually saved for holidays. He noticed a streak on one glass, polished it with his shirt, then rearranged the plates twice. Maya slid a tray of garlic bread into the oven and reminded him to move his bicycle helmet from the entryway.

The doorbell rang at six sharp.

Claire and Luis brought a salad; Ben and Tasha arrived ten minutes later with a grocery-store cheesecake and apologies about traffic. Coats piled on the bed upstairs. Daniel poured drinks while Maya drained pasta, and everyone drifted toward the kitchen despite her suggestion that they sit in the living room.

Dinner was noisy and comfortable. Luis told a story about locking himself out of his car. Tasha asked about the new paint color. Daniel dropped a fork, and Maya caught his eye as he bent to retrieve it. Both started laughing for no clear reason.

After dessert, their friends helped stack plates before leaving. The house became suddenly quiet.

Daniel filled the sink with hot water. Maya wrapped the leftover pasta and leaned against the counter.

“That went well,” she said.

He handed her a dish towel. “Even with the salt?”

“Especially with the salt.”

They cleaned side by side, listening to the dishwasher hum and the fading sound of tires on the wet street.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Elena wiped a circle in the glass and watched rain darken the sidewalk outside their townhouse in Maryland.

“Ben, did you get ice?” she asked.

He stopped halfway through arranging mismatched chairs around the dining table. “I got bread.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Ben checked the grocery bag, as if ice might be hiding beneath the baguette. “I’ll go.”

While he walked to the corner store, Elena tasted the sauce, added salt, then regretted it. She dropped in another can of tomatoes and stirred. Their friends were due at six-thirty: Priya and Marcus from down the street, and Ben’s coworker, Devon, who had recently moved to the area.

Ben returned wet-haired, carrying two bags of ice and a bunch of grocery-store flowers. Elena found a jar for the flowers while he filled a cooler and changed his damp socks. Together they cleared mail from the counter, lit two candles, and debated whether the chipped bowl was acceptable for salad.

“It’s charming,” Ben decided.

“It’s chipped.”

“Charming and chipped.”

The doorbell rang as Elena was draining pasta. Priya arrived with wine, Marcus with a board game under his arm, and Devon with a bakery box tied in string. Coats piled on the banister. Ben poured drinks and introduced everyone while Elena tossed the pasta with sauce.

At dinner, the bread was slightly burned and one candle kept going out. Nobody seemed to mind. Marcus told a story about locking himself out during the rain, and Devon laughed so hard she knocked her fork onto the floor. Ben fetched another. Elena brought out more sauce.

After dessert, they played the board game until nearly eleven. When the last guests left, Ben closed the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” he said.

Elena looked at the crowded sink and the sauce splattered across the stove. “It did.”

He turned on the faucet. She began stacking plates beside him, and together they cleaned the kitchen in the quiet left behind.


By five o’clock, Mara had cleared the mail from the dining table while Daniel stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. They had invited two other couples for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the townhouse outside Columbus.

“Do we have enough chairs?” Daniel asked.

“Six, if nobody leans back too hard,” Mara said. She carried in two folding chairs from the garage and wiped dust from their seats with a dish towel.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Daniel browned chicken thighs in a Dutch oven while Mara assembled a salad and checked the rice. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a baking sheet beneath it. Mara opened the back door, letting in a gust of cold March air.

At six fifteen, she changed her shirt after splashing dressing on the sleeve. Daniel set out mismatched wineglasses and turned the chipped one toward his own place.

Their friends arrived within minutes of each other, bringing a bottle of red wine and a bakery box. Coats piled on the banister. Everyone gathered in the kitchen despite Mara’s suggestion that they sit in the living room.

Dinner was slightly late. The rice stuck to the bottom of the pot, but Daniel spooned the good portion into a serving bowl while Mara carried the chicken to the table. Conversation moved from rising grocery prices to a neighbor’s new fence, then to summer travel plans nobody had booked.

After dessert—lemon bars from the bakery—the guests helped stack plates before leaving around ten. Daniel loaded the dishwasher while Mara wrapped the remaining chicken and found a wineglass on the windowsill.

“That went well,” he said.

Mara looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me after we clean up.”

They finished together, passing dishes and towels back and forth. Before turning off the kitchen light, Daniel noticed one folding chair wobbling.

“Only five chairs next time,” he said.

Mara laughed and leaned against him. “Or fewer friends.”


By five on Saturday, Elena had cleared the mail from the dining table and pushed the stack into a kitchen drawer. Marcus noticed but said nothing. He was at the counter in their Ohio townhouse, chopping parsley for the roast chicken while listening to a basketball game on the radio.

“Did you get ice?” Elena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I got wine.”

“So no ice.”

“I’ll go.”

She smiled and handed him the grocery list, where ice had been circled twice. While he drove to the corner store, Elena set out six mismatched cloth napkins. Two had belonged to her grandmother; the others came from a clearance bin. She folded them into rectangles, then rearranged the chairs so no one would be trapped beside the radiator.

Marcus returned carrying ice, sparkling water, and a bag of tortilla chips.

“We’re serving bread,” Elena said.

“Chips are insurance.”

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another. Priya and Sam brought tulips, still wrapped in brown paper. Denise arrived alone, apologizing because her husband had been called into work. Marcus found a jar for the flowers while Elena took coats upstairs.

Dinner was nearly ready, but the chicken needed another fifteen minutes. They gathered in the kitchen, where everyone ate Marcus’s “insurance” chips with salsa. Elena poured drinks and asked Denise about her new apartment. Marcus checked the oven twice, then sliced the bread too early and covered it with a towel to keep it warm.

At the table, the chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes were crisp, and Priya asked for the recipe. Conversation moved from school board elections to a raccoon that had been opening Sam’s trash cans. Elena caught Marcus’s eye when Denise laughed hard enough to spill water. He stood for a towel at the same moment she did, and they bumped shoulders.

After their friends left, the house seemed unusually quiet. Marcus stacked plates while Elena wrapped the remaining chicken.

“Good dinner,” he said.

“Good chips,” she replied.

They finished cleaning together, leaving the tulips on the table and the last pan soaking until morning.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Nina wiped a circle in the glass with her sleeve and glanced at the driveway.

“They’re not coming for another hour,” Mark said, carrying in two folding chairs from the garage.

“I know. I’m checking the weather.”

“You’ve checked it four times.”

Nina tasted the sauce and handed him the spoon. Mark added a pinch of salt, then unfolded the chairs at the end of the dining table. Their house in Ohio was small, and when six people ate together, the table nearly blocked the hallway.

While Nina assembled a salad, Mark vacuumed the living room. He paused to move a stack of mail from the coffee table, then tucked it into a desk drawer.

“We’ll forget that’s there,” Nina called.

“We were already forgetting it on the table.”

At six ten, the doorbell rang. Their friends Carla and Luis arrived with wine, followed by Jenna and Tom, who brought a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed upstairs because the hall closet was full.

Mark poured drinks while Nina pulled the baked ziti from the oven. One corner had browned more than she wanted, but Luis asked for that piece. At dinner, they talked about a road closure, a difficult supervisor, and Carla’s attempt to grow herbs under a kitchen lamp. When Tom knocked his fork onto the floor, everyone shifted their chairs so he could retrieve it.

Afterward, Nina made coffee while Mark cut the lemon cake from the bakery box. They had forgotten to buy candles, though no one was celebrating anything.

By ten thirty, the last guests had left. Mark carried glasses to the sink. Nina wrapped the remaining ziti in foil and found the hidden mail while looking for tape.

“I told you,” she said.

Mark smiled and turned on the faucet. They stood side by side, washing and drying in the quiet kitchen, pleased that the evening had gone well and relieved to have the house to themselves again.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and roasted tomatoes. Elena stood at the stove, stirring sauce while checking the recipe on her phone. Behind her, Mark dragged the vacuum cleaner around the dining table, bumping one chair hard enough to make her turn.

“Careful,” she said. “That was my grandmother’s.”

“You say that about everything we own.”

“Only the breakable things.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first gathering since moving to Minneapolis. The apartment still had unpacked boxes along the hallway, so Mark carried them into the bedroom and shut the door. Elena tasted the sauce, added salt, then asked him to set the table.

He found six plates, but only five matching glasses. After a brief search, Elena discovered the missing one on Mark’s desk, holding pens. She washed it while he folded paper napkins into uneven rectangles.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store bouquet. Coats piled up on the bed beside the hidden boxes. In the kitchen, Elena drained pasta while Mark passed around drinks and tried to keep everyone from crowding the stove.

Dinner was not perfect. The bread browned too much under the broiler, and Mark forgot to put out the salad until everyone was halfway through the pasta. Still, the conversation moved easily—from neighborhood parking rules to a new movie to someone’s difficult manager. Elena relaxed when she noticed people taking second helpings.

After dessert, their guests lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly quiet.

Mark began stacking plates. Elena wrapped the remaining cake and put it in the refrigerator.

“I think that went well,” he said.

“You burned the bread.”

“You dropped a spoon in the sauce.”

She smiled and handed him a dish towel. Together they cleared the table, working around each other in the narrow kitchen. Outside, a snowplow scraped down the street. Inside, the sink filled with warm, soapy water, and they agreed to leave the vacuuming until morning.


By five o’clock, Daniel had cleared the mail from the dining table while his wife, Marissa, stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. Their friends were due at seven, and the apartment already smelled of garlic and rosemary.

“Did you get ice?” Marissa asked.

Daniel stopped halfway to the recycling bin. “I got wine.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He checked the freezer, found two trays with six cubes between them, and grabbed his keys. Before leaving, he folded the clean napkins beside the plates and moved the cat’s food bowl away from the entryway.

While he was gone, Marissa browned chicken thighs in a heavy skillet. Oil snapped against her wrist, and she muttered, then turned down the heat. She stirred tomatoes into the pan, tasted the sauce, and added salt. Daniel returned carrying ice, sparkling water, and a loaf of bread he admitted they probably didn’t need.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Daniel washed lettuce and made a vinaigrette. Marissa slid the chicken into the oven and wiped sauce from the stove. When the doorbell rang, Daniel was still changing his shirt, so Marissa welcomed Priya and Ben with a wooden spoon in her hand.

Soon the apartment filled with overlapping conversation. Ben opened the wine. Priya arranged the bread in a basket and helped Marissa carry dishes to the table. Daniel lit two candles, one of which leaned slightly, and everyone agreed not to mention it.

Dinner was simple and good. The chicken was tender, the salad was sharper than Daniel intended, and the extra bread disappeared. They talked about work, a neighbor’s noisy renovation, and a camping trip none of them had scheduled.

After their friends left, Marissa packed leftovers while Daniel loaded the dishwasher. He held up one remaining wineglass.

“Hand-wash,” she said.

“I know.”

“You put it in last time.”

Daniel sighed, washed it carefully, and set it on a towel. Then they sat together at the cluttered table, sharing the last piece of cake directly from the serving plate.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Daniel had used on the kitchen counters. He stood at the stove stirring a pot of tomato sauce while his wife, Maya, arranged mismatched plates around their dining table.

“Six people, six chairs,” she said, counting again.

Daniel glanced toward the folding chair wedged beside the bookshelf. “That one leans.”

“It only leans if you lean.”

They had invited two other couples from their neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio. It was their first dinner since moving into the apartment, and Maya wanted everything to feel easy, though she had spent the afternoon checking recipes and refolding napkins.

Daniel tasted the sauce and added salt. Maya opened the oven, where a tray of vegetables was browning too quickly.

“Timer?” she asked.

“I set one.”

“For the bread.”

They looked at each other, then laughed as Maya pulled out the tray. The carrots were dark at the edges but still edible.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full. Daniel poured drinks while Maya found a jar for the flowers. When the pasta water boiled over, their friend Lena grabbed a towel, and soon everyone was talking in the kitchen.

At dinner, the leaning chair behaved. The sauce was good, the vegetables were called “caramelized,” and Daniel forgot to serve the bread until halfway through the meal. Maya told the story of their smoke alarm going off the first night they moved in. Daniel protested that the frozen pizza had been defective.

After dessert, their guests stayed longer than expected. When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

Maya began stacking plates. Daniel filled the sink.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crumbs, the empty wine bottle, and the flowers on the counter.

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

Daniel handed her a dish towel. “Agreed.”


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the bread Daniel had forgotten in the oven for two minutes too long.

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

Maya looked over from the table, where she was arranging mismatched cloth napkins. “It’s aggressively toasted.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving to Minneapolis. Their dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Daniel pulled it away from the wall while Maya added a folding chair from the bedroom.

In the kitchen, they worked around each other with practiced efficiency. Maya stirred a pot of tomato sauce and tasted it with a wooden spoon. Daniel washed lettuce, then spun it so enthusiastically that water splashed onto the counter.

“Could you open the wine?” she asked.

“Already did.”

“That’s why I married you.”

At six fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived carrying flowers, a six-pack, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone admired the view of the parking lot as if it were a lake.

Dinner began with everyone passing bowls over elbows. Daniel served pasta while Maya cut the bread into thick slices, hiding the darkest side against the cutting board. The conversation moved from work to rent increases to a neighbor’s dog that had learned to open doors. When Maya dropped her fork, Daniel reached down for it at the same time, and they bumped heads under the table.

Later, one friend helped clear plates while another opened the bakery box. The cake inside had slid sideways during the drive, but nobody minded. They ate it with coffee, scraping frosting from the cardboard.

After the last guest left, Daniel locked the door and leaned against it. The apartment was warm and crowded with dirty glasses.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya surveyed the kitchen. “Ask me after the dishes.”

He rolled up his sleeves, and she turned on the faucet. Outside, snow had begun to cover the parked cars. Inside, they washed, dried, and stacked everything back into place.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Daniel had used on the kitchen counters. He stood at the sink rinsing salad greens while his wife, Marisol, checked the chicken roasting in the oven.

“Too brown?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She closed the oven door and reset the timer. “But remind me in fifteen minutes.”

Daniel pointed to the timer. “That’s literally its job.”

Marisol laughed and moved the stack of unopened mail from the dining table to a desk drawer. They were expecting four friends, though the table only had five matching chairs. Daniel carried in the folding chair from the bedroom and wiped dust from its seat with his sleeve.

At six, their friend Nina texted that traffic on the interstate was slow. Marisol used the extra time to change her shirt after splashing olive oil on it. Daniel set out water glasses, then rearranged them when she said the table looked crowded.

Their guests arrived in pairs, bringing wine, a bakery loaf, and a container of cookies. Coats gathered on the bed. Daniel opened the wine while Marisol sliced the bread, and everyone talked from the kitchen doorway despite being asked to sit down.

Dinner was slightly late. The chicken was tender, but the potatoes needed salt. Nina told a story about her new supervisor, and Daniel nearly spilled his drink laughing. Marisol noticed their friend Eric quietly take a second helping and felt relieved.

Afterward, they carried plates to the kitchen together. Daniel loaded the dishwasher while Marisol packed leftovers into mismatched containers. Their friends lingered over coffee until almost eleven.

When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed unusually still. Daniel found a cookie broken in half on the table and offered part to Marisol.

“We forgot to serve these,” he said.

“We served enough.”

They ate the cookie standing in the kitchen, looking at the crowded sink. Then Marisol turned off the overhead light, and they agreed the rest could wait until morning.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Elena wiped a clear circle in the glass and looked out at the wet street.

“They’ll be here in an hour,” she said.

Marcus glanced up from the dining table, where he was arranging mismatched cloth napkins. “Plenty of time.”

“You said that before Thanksgiving.”

“And dinner was only twenty minutes late.”

Elena laughed and returned to chopping parsley. They had invited two other couples from their neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio—nothing formal, just baked ziti, salad, and the lemon cake Marcus had made that morning. Still, they moved around each other with practiced urgency. Elena grated cheese while Marcus filled water glasses and searched for the corkscrew.

At six ten, the doorbell rang. Marcus opened the door to Priya and Daniel, who arrived carrying wine and a bag of ice. A few minutes later, Tasha and Ben came in shaking rain from their jackets.

The apartment quickly felt warmer and smaller. Coats piled on the bed, and everyone gathered in the kitchen despite Marcus’s efforts to guide them toward the living room. Priya stirred the sauce while Elena pulled the ziti from the oven. Daniel opened the wine. Ben found the missing corkscrew in the utensil drawer.

At dinner, they talked about a new grocery store, rising property taxes, and Tasha’s difficult commute. Marcus knocked over his water while reaching for the bread, and Elena passed him a towel without interrupting her story.

Afterward, Marcus served cake while Elena made coffee. One slice collapsed sideways, but nobody minded. By ten, the rain had stopped, and their friends left with foil-wrapped leftovers.

Elena closed the door and leaned against it. The dining table was crowded with plates and half-empty glasses.

“We could clean tomorrow,” Marcus said.

She considered this, then began stacking dishes. “We’ll be glad in the morning.”

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and turned on the faucet. Together, they worked quietly, passing plates through warm, soapy water.


By four o’clock, Maya had cleared the mail from the dining table while Ben stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions for the tomato sauce. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that they could talk without raising their voices.

“Did you get sparkling water?” Maya asked, carrying a stack of unopened envelopes to the desk.

Ben stopped chopping. “I got wine.”

“Daniel doesn’t drink.”

Ben sighed, wiped his hands, and reached for his keys. “I’ll run downstairs.”

While he was gone, Maya set out six mismatched plates, including two blue ones they had bought at a yard sale. She folded cloth napkins, then unfolded them when she decided they looked too formal. In the kitchen, the sauce began to sputter. She lowered the heat and stirred it, tasting carefully.

Ben returned with sparkling water and a bag of ice. He added more salt to the sauce despite Maya’s warning, and she grated Parmesan while he assembled a salad. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the knife, opening drawers, and bumping hips once near the sink.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another. Coats piled on the bed, and the apartment filled with damp November air and conversation. Maya poured drinks while Ben carried out the salad and bread. When he realized he had forgotten to cook the pasta, everyone laughed, and Daniel helped him find the largest pot.

Dinner was twenty minutes late. The sauce was slightly salty, and one chair wobbled until Maya folded a cardboard coaster under its leg. Still, the pasta disappeared quickly. They talked about a new supervisor at Daniel’s office, a neighborhood bakery closing, and whether anyone had watched the latest documentary.

After dessert—store-bought pie warmed in the oven—the guests lingered over coffee. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Ben washed dishes while Maya dried. She held up a wineglass with a faint lipstick mark.

“Successful?” he asked.

She looked at the crowded drying rack and the empty pie tin. “I’d say so.”

He handed her another plate, and they finished cleaning together.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Elena stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the time on the microwave. Across the kitchen, her husband, Marcus, sliced mushrooms with slow concentration.

“You know they don’t have to be identical,” Elena said.

Marcus held up two uneven slices. “These are close enough.”

Their friends, Priya and Daniel, were due at six-thirty. The four of them had not shared a meal in months, though they lived only twenty minutes apart in the same Ohio suburb.

Elena lowered the heat under the sauce. Marcus carried the mushrooms to the dining table, where an electric skillet waited for him. Their kitchen was too narrow for two people to work comfortably, so they had divided the room into territories. Elena handled the pasta and salad; Marcus cooked the mushrooms and set the table.

At six, Marcus noticed they had forgotten ice. He pulled on his coat and drove to the gas station while Elena showered and changed. He returned with two bags of ice and, unexpectedly, a bunch of yellow flowers.

“The selection was limited,” he said, putting them in a water pitcher.

“They’re perfect,” Elena replied.

Priya and Daniel arrived ten minutes late with a bottle of wine and a bakery box. Coats were hung over the backs of chairs. Everyone crowded into the kitchen, talking over the hiss of boiling water.

During dinner, Daniel told a story about getting locked out of his office, and Priya described the vegetable garden she planned to start in spring. Marcus brought out more bread. Elena refilled glasses and relaxed when she realized no one cared that the pasta had softened.

After dessert, they moved to the living room and played cards until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed behind their guests, Elena began stacking plates.

“Leave them,” Marcus said, gathering the glasses anyway.

Together, they loaded the dishwasher, wiped the table, and folded the extra chairs. The apartment was quiet again, but the pitcher of yellow flowers remained in the center of the table.


By five o’clock, the kitchen windows had fogged from the stockpot simmering on the stove. Elena stood at the counter in stocking feet, chopping parsley while checking the recipe on her phone. Across the room, Mark crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the chairs.

“Try it now,” he said.

Elena sat down cautiously. The chair held.

“Good. Nobody gets injured before dessert.”

Their friends, Nina and Paul, were due at six-thirty. Mark set four plates on the table, then replaced one after noticing a chip along the rim. Elena tasted the soup, frowned, and handed him the spoon.

“Salt?”

He tried it. “A little. But not as much as last time.”

She gave him a look, though she was smiling.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Mark washed lettuce and spun it dry while Elena slid a pan of chicken and vegetables into the oven. When the smoke alarm chirped, they both froze. Mark grabbed a dish towel and waved it beneath the detector until it stopped.

At six-twenty, Elena changed her sweater. Mark lit a candle, decided it smelled too strongly of pine, and blew it out. The doorbell rang while he was still carrying the candle to the bedroom.

Nina arrived with wine, and Paul brought a paper bag of bakery rolls. Coats were piled on the bed. Soon the apartment filled with conversation, clinking glasses, and the scrape of chairs.

The chicken came out slightly darker than Elena intended, but everyone took seconds. Mark told the story of the smoke alarm, exaggerating his role in saving dinner. Elena corrected him twice.

After dessert, they lingered at the table until nearly ten. When their friends left, Elena leaned against the closed door and sighed.

“That went well,” Mark said.

In the kitchen, they found a tower of dishes and parsley scattered across the floor. Elena turned on the faucet. Mark picked up a towel.

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

“Absolutely,” he agreed, handing her a plate.