At six fifteen, Lena heard Marcus’s key scrape in the apartment door. She was standing at the counter in socks, cutting broccoli into uneven florets while a pot of water warmed on the stove.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction,” he said, setting his backpack on a chair. “And I forgot we’re out of coffee.”

“I put it on the list.”

“The list I left on the fridge.”

He crossed to the refrigerator and looked at the paper held up by a magnet from their dentist’s office. Lena slid the cutting board toward him.

“You can make yourself useful.”

Marcus washed his hands, then took over the broccoli while Lena opened a box of pasta. They had planned to cook chicken, but neither of them had remembered to move it from the freezer. After a brief discussion, they agreed on pasta with broccoli, garlic, and the last of the Parmesan.

“Enough for lunch tomorrow?” Marcus asked.

“If you don’t eat three bowls.”

“That happened once.”

“It happened Monday.”

While the pasta boiled, Marcus heated olive oil in a skillet and added sliced garlic. One piece browned too fast, and he fished it out with a fork. Lena lowered the burner and poured two glasses of water. She checked the mail on the counter: an electric bill, a grocery coupon, and a postcard addressed to the previous tenant.

They ate at the small table by the window. Marcus added red pepper flakes; Lena said he always added them before tasting anything. He tasted the pasta and added more.

They talked about a leaking faucet, whether they could visit his sister next month, and which one of them had agreed to buy cat litter, though they did not own a cat. Eventually they realized the item belonged on the downstairs neighbor’s shopping list, which had somehow been slipped under their door.

After dinner, Lena packed the leftovers into one container.

“So no lunch for me?” Marcus asked.

“You had three bowls.”

He looked at his empty plate and nodded. “Fair.”

Marcus washed the dishes while Lena dried them, and together they left the chicken in the refrigerator to thaw for tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, studying a package of chicken thighs as if it contained instructions for the rest of the evening.

“Sheet pan?” he called.

Elena came in carrying the mail. She set two envelopes and a grocery flyer beside the fruit bowl. “Only if we use the broccoli before it turns into compost.”

Marcus opened the refrigerator. The broccoli was slightly limp but still green. “Salvageable.”

While the oven heated, Elena cut the broccoli into uneven florets. Marcus trimmed the chicken and dropped the pieces into a bowl with olive oil, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting automatically—Elena stepping aside so he could reach the spice cabinet, Marcus moving the cutting board when she needed the sink.

“Potatoes or rice?” he asked.

“Rice is faster.”

“You always say that, but then we forget about it.”

“We forgot once.”

“Twice.”

Elena measured rice into the small saucepan. “Then you’re in charge of the timer.”

Marcus arranged the chicken and broccoli on a sheet pan. Elena added a sliced lemon from the refrigerator, squeezing the soft half over everything before tossing the rind into the trash.

While dinner cooked, Marcus sorted the mail and found the electric bill. Elena wiped the counter, then leaned over his shoulder to look at the total.

“That’s better than last month,” she said.

“We haven’t used the air-conditioning.”

“It’s April.”

“Exactly. Excellent strategy.”

The rice timer sounded first. Marcus turned off the burner but left the lid on. Ten minutes later, Elena checked the chicken with the thermometer they kept in the utensil drawer.

At the table, they divided the crispest broccoli pieces without discussing it. Marcus added hot sauce to his rice; Elena picked the roasted lemon slices off her plate.

“The broccoli survived,” she said.

“Barely.”

Afterward, Elena packed the remaining chicken into two lunch containers while Marcus rinsed the pan. He washed; she dried. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower started up, and they closed the kitchen window against the noise.


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

“I stopped for lemons,” he said, setting the sack beside the sink. “They were three for two dollars, so now we own too many lemons.”

“We’ll survive.” Lena opened the refrigerator. “Chicken, rice, green beans?”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll do the chicken.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus had a narrow kitchen, and they had learned to move around each other without much discussion. Lena rinsed rice in a saucepan while Marcus trimmed two chicken breasts on the cutting board. When she stepped toward the spice cabinet, he shifted automatically to let her pass.

“Paprika?” he asked.

“Second shelf, behind the cinnamon.”

He seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika, then heated a skillet. Lena put the rice on and poured the green beans onto a sheet pan. She added olive oil and garlic powder, then held up one of the lemons.

“Use half now?”

“Save the other half for water,” Marcus said. “Otherwise it’ll become a science project.”

While the chicken cooked, Lena sorted the mail at the counter. She handed him an envelope from the electric company.

“You open it.”

“Why me?”

“You’re already holding the tongs.”

He laughed, turned the chicken, and opened the envelope with his free hand. The bill was lower than last month. They agreed it was probably because they had finally stopped running the air conditioner at night.

Dinner was ready a little after seven. Marcus sliced the chicken, and Lena divided the rice and beans between two plates. They ate at the small table by the window, talking about her meeting, his commute, and whether they needed laundry detergent.

The green beans were slightly overdone, but the chicken was good. Marcus squeezed lemon over both plates.

“Tomorrow, leftovers?” Lena asked.

“Definitely.”

Afterward, she packed two lunch containers while he washed the skillet. Neither called it teamwork. It was simply Tuesday.


By six-thirty, Daniel had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Behind him, the washing machine thumped unevenly in the laundry closet.

“We have chicken,” he called.

Maya came in carrying her laptop and set it on the counter. “We always have chicken.”

“We also have half a zucchini and some questionable spinach.”

She opened the spinach container, inspected the leaves, and removed two that had gone soft. “It’s fine. Pasta?”

Daniel filled a pot with water while Maya cut the chicken into small pieces. They moved around each other without much thought, trading the knife, reaching past one another for salt and olive oil. When the washing machine began knocking harder, Daniel left to redistribute the towels.

“Why do we own one red towel?” he asked from the hallway.

“It was yours before we got married.”

“That explains nothing.”

Maya laughed and added garlic to the skillet. It browned faster than she expected, so she lowered the heat and pushed it aside before it burned. Daniel returned and stirred the chicken while she sliced the zucchini.

They debated whether to use tomato sauce or pesto. The pesto had been open for nearly two weeks.

“Tomato,” Maya decided.

“Safer,” Daniel agreed.

While the pasta cooked, he cleared mail from the small dining table. Maya rinsed the spinach and dropped it into the sauce, where it collapsed almost immediately. Daniel grated the last heel of Parmesan, scraping his knuckles once and muttering under his breath.

They ate from shallow bowls, with glasses of tap water and the evening news playing quietly in the living room. The pasta was slightly overcooked, but the sauce was good.

“We need groceries,” Maya said.

Daniel nodded. “I’ll make a list.”

“You said that Sunday.”

“I’ll make one tonight.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Before bed,” he amended.

After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers into one container for his lunch. Daniel washed the skillet and pot while she wiped the stove. When the washer buzzed, they looked toward the hallway.

“Your red towel,” Maya said.

Daniel dried his hands. “Our red towel now.”


By six-thirty, Daniel had chopped half an onion and was standing at the stove, waiting for the olive oil to shimmer. The apartment windows had fogged slightly from the pot of pasta water. Outside, buses sighed at the corner and headlights moved through the early November rain.

Maya came in carrying a grocery bag and set it on the counter. “They were out of spinach,” she said, taking off her damp jacket. “So I got broccoli.”

“That works.” Daniel tipped the onion into the skillet. It hissed loudly enough that they both stepped back.

Maya laughed and opened the refrigerator. “Did you save the chicken?”

“Top shelf.”

She found the container of roasted chicken from Sunday and began pulling the meat from the bones while Daniel stirred the onions. They discussed whether to add the whole box of pasta. Daniel argued that leftovers would solve tomorrow’s lunch; Maya pointed out that their largest storage container was currently holding soup.

“Three quarters,” she decided, and poured by eye.

While the penne cooked, Maya cut the broccoli into small florets. Daniel added garlic to the skillet, then lowered the heat when it started browning too quickly. He asked about her meeting; she said it had lasted ninety minutes and produced another meeting. She asked whether he had called the plumber. He admitted he had forgotten.

“Tomorrow?” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

They added the broccoli to the pasta water for the final two minutes, then drained everything together. In the skillet, they combined the pasta, chicken, onions, and a spoonful of cream cheese because they had no Parmesan. Maya squeezed in half a lemon. Daniel tasted it and added salt.

They ate at the small table by the window, with paper napkins and glasses of tap water. The sauce was thinner than they had intended, but the broccoli was crisp and the lemon helped.

“This is good,” Maya said.

“It’s acceptable,” Daniel replied, reaching for a second serving.

Afterward, he washed the skillet while she packed the remaining pasta into two smaller containers. They left them side by side in the refrigerator, ready for morning.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter, slicing a red bell pepper, while her husband, Daniel, searched the refrigerator for the jar of minced garlic.

“It’s in the door,” Maya said.

“I looked in the door.”

“Top shelf.”

Daniel found it behind the mustard. “That’s not where garlic belongs.”

“It is when you put it there.”

He smiled and set the jar beside the stove. They had both worked late—Maya at the elementary school where she taught, Daniel from the spare bedroom of their Ohio townhouse—and neither wanted to make the chicken they had planned. After a brief debate, they settled on pasta with vegetables and the last two links of Italian sausage.

Daniel filled a pot with water and turned on the burner. Maya cut the sausage into coins, then slid them into a skillet. They sizzled sharply, spattering the stovetop.

“Lower heat,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re reaching for the knob.”

“Because I know.”

While the pasta cooked, Daniel washed spinach in the colander. Maya added the peppers, garlic, and half a can of diced tomatoes to the skillet. She tasted the sauce and handed him the spoon.

“Salt?”

“A little. And red pepper.”

“You always say red pepper.”

“And I’m usually right.”

They ate at the small table near the kitchen, with a stack of unopened mail pushed to one side. Daniel grated Parmesan over both bowls. Maya reminded him they needed laundry detergent, and he added it to the grocery list on his phone. They discussed whether to call the plumber about the slow bathroom drain, then agreed to wait until Saturday and try cleaning it themselves.

The pasta was slightly overcooked, but the sauce was good. Daniel took the last spoonful from the skillet and divided it between their bowls.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Daniel rinsed the plates and loaded the dishwasher. They worked around each other without speaking much, exchanging the dish towel and closing drawers, the familiar choreography of an ordinary evening.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, looking into the refrigerator. Marcus came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“I got tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “And cilantro, because the old cilantro has become compost.”

“It was trying its best,” Elena said.

They decided on chicken tacos, mostly because there was half a rotisserie chicken left from Sunday. Marcus pulled the meat from the bones while Elena sliced an onion and warmed a can of black beans in a small saucepan. The kitchen window had fogged slightly from the heat, though outside their Ohio neighborhood was cold and dark.

Marcus put on the local news, then turned it down when both of them realized they were talking over it. He seasoned the chicken with cumin and chili powder and added a splash of water before heating it in a skillet.

“Too much?” he asked, holding up the chili powder.

“For you, no. For me, probably.”

He shook in half of what he had planned.

Elena found a lime in the crisper drawer, wrinkled but usable. She cut it into wedges while Marcus warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner, flipping them with tongs. One edge caught fire briefly.

“Professional technique,” he said, blowing it out.

They carried everything to the table in mismatched bowls. Elena assembled two tacos with beans, chicken, onion, and cilantro. Marcus added shredded cheese to his and then passed the bag to her without asking.

They ate while sorting the mail between them. Marcus opened the electric bill; Elena set aside a flyer for a neighborhood meeting. They discussed whether to go, whether the dishwasher sounded worse than yesterday, and who needed the car on Thursday.

After dinner, Elena packed the remaining chicken and beans into one container for lunch. Marcus cleared the plates and filled the sink with soapy water.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“I’ll dry.”

They worked quietly, bumping elbows once, while the lowered voices of the news drifted in from the counter.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their Ohio townhouse, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery bag.

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

“That’s fine. Did you remember lemons?”

He lifted two from the bag like proof.

While Marcus trimmed the beans, Lena set a skillet over medium heat and opened a package of chicken thighs. They had planned to cook on Sunday, but the weekend had disappeared into errands and a visit to Marcus’s mother. Now it was Tuesday, and the chicken needed to be used.

“Paprika?” Lena asked.

“Paprika and garlic,” Marcus said. “Not too much salt.”

She looked at him. “You always add more at the table.”

“That’s different.”

Marcus put the beans in a pot with an inch of water, then searched for the lid. Lena pointed to the drying rack without turning around. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, trading utensils, and wiping spills as they went.

The chicken hissed when Lena laid it in the hot pan. Marcus started the couscous, misread the measurement, and poured in too much water.

“It’ll be soft,” he said.

“It’ll be soup.”

He added another handful of couscous, and they agreed not to mention it again.

Twenty minutes later, they carried their plates to the small dining table beside the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb. A delivery van idled across the street.

Marcus squeezed lemon over the beans. Lena tasted the couscous and nodded.

“Not soup,” she said.

They ate while comparing their workdays: her delayed project, his new supervisor, a dentist appointment one of them needed to schedule. When Marcus reached for a second piece of chicken, Lena slid the skillet toward him.

“Save one for lunch,” she said.

He paused, then chose the smaller piece.

Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers while Marcus washed the dishes. She dried the skillet and put it away, and together they turned off the kitchen lights.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. Daniel came in from walking the dog, hung the leash by the door, and washed his hands.

“What are our options?” he asked.

“Chicken, half a bag of green beans, and rice. Or takeout.”

Daniel opened the drawer where they kept menus, then closed it. “We said we’d stop ordering on Wednesdays.”

“You said that.”

“And you agreed.”

Maya smiled and handed him the cutting board. “Fine. Trim the beans.”

She put a skillet on the stove and took two chicken breasts from their package. While Daniel snapped the ends off the beans, she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. He pointed out that she had used the last of the paprika.

“I’ll add it to the list,” she said.

“You said that about coffee filters.”

“They’re on there.”

He checked the magnetic pad on the refrigerator. “They are not.”

Maya took the pen from his hand and wrote both items down. Daniel rinsed the rice, measuring the water with his finger because they could never find the little plastic cup that came with the cooker.

The chicken sizzled when Maya laid it in the pan. Daniel opened a window, and cool October air drifted over the sink. They moved around each other without much thought—she reached past him for the olive oil; he shifted aside and handed it to her before she asked.

Twenty minutes later, they carried their plates to the small table by the living room. The rice was slightly sticky, and one piece of chicken was darker than the other. Daniel gave Maya the lighter one.

They ate while discussing whether they could afford to replace the noisy dishwasher before the holidays. Maya thought they should wait. Daniel agreed, though reluctantly.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers for lunch while she loaded the dishwasher. It started with its usual grinding rattle.

They both paused to listen.

“January,” Maya said.

“January,” Daniel agreed, and turned up the television.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice for the third time. The apartment windows reflected the gray February sky over Columbus, Ohio. Outside, tires hissed on wet pavement.

“Two cups of water,” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail under one arm. “For one cup of rice?”

“That’s what it says.”

He set the envelopes beside the fruit bowl and opened the refrigerator. “We still have that broccoli?”

“Bottom drawer.”

Marcus found it, along with half a lemon and a package of chicken thighs they had moved from the freezer the night before. Elena started the rice while he trimmed the broccoli over the sink. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting aside without speaking when one needed a drawer or cabinet.

“Bake or pan?” Marcus asked, holding up the chicken.

“Pan. Faster.”

He seasoned it with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. Elena heated oil in their large skillet, then stepped back when it began to shimmer. Marcus added the chicken, and both of them flinched at the popping oil.

While it cooked, Elena sorted the mail. “Electric bill. Dentist reminder. Something from your credit union.”

“Anything good?”

“Grocery coupon.”

“That counts.”

They steamed the broccoli in the microwave, then squeezed the tired lemon over it. Marcus checked the thickest piece of chicken with the small thermometer his mother had given them. Elena fluffed the rice and tasted it.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“It always needs salt.”

They carried their plates to the small dining table, leaving the skillet to soak. Marcus poured water; Elena found the hot sauce.

For a few minutes, they ate quietly. The chicken was browned well, though one piece was slightly dry.

“Next time, lower heat,” Marcus said.

“Next time, you’re in charge of the rice.”

“I thought I already was.”

Elena smiled and passed him the broccoli. After dinner, she packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the plates, both listening to the local weather forecast from the radio on the counter.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the yogurt,” she said.

“I looked behind the yogurt.”

“The big yogurt.”

He moved the carton and found the rice. “You could have said the enormous yogurt.”

They had both arrived home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a counselor, Daniel from the insurance office across town. On the drive home, they had exchanged texts about ordering pizza, but the package of chicken thighs in the refrigerator needed to be cooked.

Daniel put the rice in a skillet with a little oil and broke up the cold clumps with a wooden spoon. Maya seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika, then laid the pieces in another pan. The oil snapped, and she stepped back.

“Can you turn on the fan?”

He reached over her, pressed the button, and opened the window an inch. Cold November air slipped into the kitchen.

While the chicken cooked, Maya washed the cutting board. Daniel added frozen peas to the rice and tasted it.

“Soy sauce?” he asked.

“Not too much.”

He poured some in, ignored her raised eyebrow, and stirred.

They ate at the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. Daniel moved the envelopes to the empty chair. The chicken was slightly too dark on one side, but still juicy. Maya squeezed lemon over hers and passed him the wedge.

They discussed whether the car needed new tires before winter and who would call the shop. Daniel volunteered, and Maya agreed to pick up groceries the next evening. Between bites, she showed him a funny drawing a student had given her. He laughed, then took a picture of it with his phone.

After dinner, Daniel packed the leftovers into containers while Maya loaded the dishwasher. She handed him the last plate; he rinsed it and set it in the rack.

“Pizza tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said, wiping the counter. “There’s still half an enormous yogurt.”


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Outside, rain darkened the parking lot of their apartment complex. The local news murmured from the living room.

“Do we have onions?” she called.

Marcus opened the refrigerator and moved a carton of eggs, two cans of seltzer, and a container of leftover rice. “Half of one. It looks tired.”

“It’s fine. Everything looks tired on a Tuesday.”

He set the onion on the cutting board and started peeling it while Lena filled a pot with water. They had planned to make tacos, but neither of them had remembered to thaw the ground turkey. Pasta became the backup.

Marcus chopped the onion and found a zucchini in the crisper drawer. “Use this?”

“Definitely. Before it becomes soup on its own.”

While he sliced it, Lena salted the water and put the pot on the stove. She checked her phone, frowned at an email, then turned the screen facedown.

“No work,” Marcus said.

“I know. I’m done.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m becoming done.”

They sautéed the vegetables in olive oil, taking turns stirring because the pan handle got hot. Lena added the sauce, and Marcus shook oregano into it until she told him that was enough. When the pasta was ready, they drained it together, Marcus holding the colander while Lena poured.

They ate at the small table by the window. Marcus grated Parmesan over both bowls. Lena told him about a coworker who had accidentally joined a video meeting with a cat filter on. He laughed, then described the long line at the pharmacy and the man ahead of him buying six bags of cough drops.

Halfway through dinner, Lena said, “This is better than tacos.”

“No,” Marcus said, twirling spaghetti. “But it required less planning.”

Afterward, she packed the leftovers for lunch while he washed the pot. They debated whether to watch one episode of their show or two, both already knowing they would fall asleep during the second.


At six fifteen, Lena came through the kitchen door carrying a canvas grocery bag and found her husband, Marcus, standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“Anything in there?” she asked, setting the bag on the counter.

“Half an onion, three eggs, and several ambitious condiments.”

She laughed and unpacked two chicken breasts, a bag of green beans, and a small loaf of bread. They had both worked late, and neither wanted to spend an hour cooking. Marcus filled a pot with water while Lena trimmed the beans over the sink. The local news murmured from a small radio beside the toaster.

“Rice or potatoes?” Marcus asked.

“Rice is faster.”

He measured a cup into the pot, then swept the grains he had spilled into his palm. Lena heated a skillet and seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. When the oil began to shimmer, she laid the pieces in carefully. Marcus stepped back from the splatter and opened the window an inch.

While the chicken cooked, he minced the remaining onion and added it to the beans. Lena turned the meat and checked the thickest piece with a thermometer. They moved around each other without much thought: she reached for plates while he opened the silverware drawer; he carried the hot skillet to the back burner while she drained the beans.

At the table, Marcus tore the loaf in half and handed her the larger piece.

“You bought it,” he said.

“You cooked the rice.”

“I also spilled some of it.”

They ate with the mail pushed to one side—an insurance notice, a grocery coupon, and a postcard from Lena’s sister. The chicken was slightly overdone, but the beans were crisp and the rice had absorbed the onion.

Marcus asked about Lena’s meeting. She asked whether he had called the plumber. He had, and someone would come Thursday morning.

Afterward, Lena packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. He left it to dry beside the sink, and she turned off the radio. By seven, dinner was finished and the kitchen was mostly clean.


By the time Elena got home, Marcus had already set a pot of water on the stove. His laptop was still open at the end of the kitchen table, surrounded by a coffee mug, two pens, and a stack of insurance forms.

“Pasta?” she asked, setting her tote bag on a chair.

“That was the plan,” he said. “Unless you stopped for something.”

Elena opened the refrigerator. “I bought broccoli on Sunday. We should use it before it becomes a science project.”

While the water heated, she cut the broccoli into uneven florets. Marcus found half an onion in the crisper drawer and sliced it, pausing twice to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. They discussed whether to use the jar of tomato sauce or make something with olive oil and garlic.

“Tomato sauce is easier,” Marcus said.

“We had tomato sauce Monday.”

“That was pizza.”

“It was still tomato sauce.”

He conceded, and Elena warmed olive oil in a skillet. Marcus added the onion, then minced two cloves of garlic. When the garlic began to brown too quickly, Elena moved the pan off the burner.

“You always use high heat,” she said.

“It gets things done.”

“It burns things faster.”

They added the broccoli with a splash of pasta water, then covered the skillet with a lid that did not quite fit. Marcus drained the spaghetti while Elena grated Parmesan. A few noodles slipped into the sink, and he quietly picked them out before she could comment.

They ate at the kitchen table, pushing the insurance forms aside. The pasta needed salt, so Elena brought the shaker over. Marcus added red pepper flakes to his bowl.

They talked about the neighbor’s dog, Elena’s meeting the next morning, and whether they could postpone grocery shopping until Saturday. Marcus volunteered to make lunches if Elena washed the skillet.

After dinner, she filled the sink with soapy water while he divided the leftovers into two containers. He labeled them with masking tape, though they both knew they would eat them the next day.

“Tea?” he asked.

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

Marcus put the kettle on.


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

“Ten minutes,” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the laundry basket. “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“I was including preparation time.”

He set the basket beside the hallway and opened the refrigerator. They had agreed to stop ordering takeout during the week, but by Thursday their options were usually limited. He found two chicken breasts, half a zucchini, and a container of cherry tomatoes.

“Chicken bowls?” he asked.

“With what sauce?”

Marcus held up a bottle of salad dressing. Elena frowned.

“We have a lemon,” she said. “Use that.”

While she measured water for the couscous, Marcus sliced the chicken into strips. He seasoned them with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika, then heated a skillet. Elena cut the zucchini and tomatoes, pushing them into separate piles because the tomatoes needed less time.

“You remembered,” she said.

“I learn from my mistakes.”

His first attempt at the meal had produced warm, collapsed tomatoes. She had eaten them anyway.

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading the cutting board and reaching past one another for utensils. Elena washed dishes as they finished with them. Marcus cooked the vegetables, then squeezed lemon over everything.

At the table, they divided the couscous and chicken. Marcus took more zucchini; Elena claimed the last tomatoes. For a few minutes, they ate without speaking.

“This is better than delivery,” Marcus said.

“It’s cheaper than delivery.”

“That wasn’t my point.”

Elena smiled and passed him the lemon. They discussed the laundry, a dentist appointment, and whether they needed groceries before Saturday. When they finished, Marcus carried the plates to the sink while Elena packed the leftovers into one container.

“Lunch?” she asked.

“You take it,” he said. “I have a meeting.”

She wrote her name on the lid anyway.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting the overhead light and the clutter on the counters. Elena set a pot of water on the stove while Marcus stood at the refrigerator, reading the label on a package of chicken thighs.

“These need to be cooked tonight,” he said.

“That was the plan.” She opened a drawer and found the corkscrew buried under measuring spoons. “Unless you want pasta again.”

Marcus glanced at the pot. “Isn’t that water for pasta?”

“It can be rice water.”

He laughed and took out the chicken. They settled on rice, roasted broccoli, and chicken cooked in a skillet with garlic and lemon. Elena rinsed the rice while Marcus trimmed the broccoli, dropping the florets onto a sheet pan. When he reached for the olive oil, she slid it toward him without looking.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we should schedule another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She smiled, then measured the rice into the boiling water. Marcus seasoned the chicken more heavily than she would have. She noticed but said nothing until he added another pinch of salt.

“That’s enough.”

“It’s four pieces.”

“It’s still enough.”

He stopped, conceding with a small shrug, and heated the skillet. Soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and browning chicken. Elena loaded the cutting board and knife into the dishwasher, then wiped the counter while the rice steamed. Marcus turned the broccoli halfway through roasting and opened the back door for a minute when the smoke alarm threatened to chirp.

They ate at the small table beside the living room. The broccoli was darker than intended, crisp at the edges, and the rice had stuck slightly to the pot.

“The chicken’s good,” Elena said.

“Not too salty?”

She gave him a look. “It’s good.”

Marcus reached for the lemon wedges and squeezed one over both their plates. They discussed whether they needed groceries, who would call the plumber, and what to watch later. Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus filled the sink with soapy water. Neither mentioned dessert until he found two ice cream sandwiches in the freezer.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Her husband, Caleb, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a grocery bag.

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

“Broccoli’s better anyway.”

“You always say that after I buy it.”

He sorted the mail while Nina rinsed the rice. There was a utility bill, a postcard from a roofing company, and a thick envelope from their insurance provider. Caleb placed the insurance envelope beside the fruit bowl for later. Neither of them wanted to open it during dinner.

Nina put the rice on the stove and took two chicken breasts from the refrigerator. Caleb cut the broccoli into uneven florets, then spread them on a sheet pan with olive oil and salt. When Nina saw him reaching for red pepper flakes, she reminded him that he always used too much.

“I’m being careful,” he said, shaking the jar once.

“That was three shakes.”

While the oven heated, Nina sliced the chicken into strips. Caleb warmed a skillet and added garlic. The first pieces sizzled loudly, and he stepped back.

“You can put chicken in a pan without acting surprised,” Nina said.

“I know it’s going to happen. It’s still dramatic.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, moving utensils, and wiping up small spills. Nina added soy sauce and honey to the skillet. Caleb tasted the sauce, suggested lime, and squeezed half of one over the chicken.

They ate at the small table by the window. The broccoli was slightly charred, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot, but the chicken was good.

Caleb asked whether they should watch an episode of their show. Nina looked at the dishes.

“If you wash, I’ll make coffee for tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, they finished eating, passing the last piece of broccoli back and forth until Nina finally took it.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark mirrors. Rachel stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a red bell pepper while the washing machine thumped in the hall closet.

“Did you start that with my blue shirt in it?” Daniel asked, opening the refrigerator.

“I did not inspect every item,” she said. “But I used cold water.”

He found a container of leftover rice and held it up. “This is still good, right?”

Rachel leaned over to look at it. “From Monday? Yes. Smell it.”

Daniel peeled back the lid, sniffed, and nodded. He set a skillet on the stove and added oil. Their original plan had been tacos, but neither of them had remembered to thaw the ground turkey. Now they were making fried rice with whatever they had.

Rachel finished the pepper and pushed the pieces toward him. “There’s half an onion in the drawer.”

“Is it the one wrapped in foil?”

“That’s a lemon.”

He checked again and found the onion behind a bag of carrots. While he chopped it, Rachel cracked three eggs into a bowl and beat them with a fork. Daniel cooked the eggs first, folding them into soft pieces before sliding them onto a plate. Then he added the vegetables.

“Soy sauce?” he asked.

“Not too much. My rings felt tight all day.”

He poured cautiously. Rachel added the rice, breaking up the cold clumps with a wooden spoon. Daniel returned the eggs to the pan and tasted a bite.

“Needs something.”

Rachel opened the freezer and found a nearly empty bag of peas. “These, and hot sauce.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, with the skillet between them and two glasses of water. Daniel told her about a customer who had called three times over a missing invoice. Rachel described a meeting that should have been an email.

Halfway through dinner, the washing machine buzzed.

“I’ll move it,” Daniel said.

“I’ll pack the leftovers,” Rachel replied.

There was barely enough for one lunch, so they split it between two containers and added apples from the fruit bowl. Then Rachel washed the skillet while Daniel dried it, both of them listening to the dryer begin its steady turn.


By six-thirty, Nina had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a bag of rice for the second time. Outside their townhouse in Ohio, rain tapped against the windows.

“Two cups of water,” she said. “That seems like too much.”

Marcus set a grocery bag on the counter. “Trust the rice.”

“I trusted the rice last time. We made paste.”

He took the bag from her and checked the label. “One and three-quarters, then. A compromise.”

While Nina measured the water, Marcus unpacked chicken thighs, broccoli, and a lemon. They had planned tacos, but he had forgotten tortillas. Neither of them wanted to go back out in the rain.

“Sheet-pan dinner?” he suggested.

Nina opened the refrigerator and moved a jar of pickles aside to find the mustard. “Sheet-pan dinner.”

Marcus trimmed the broccoli over the sink while Nina mixed mustard, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic powder, salt, and pepper in a cereal bowl. She tasted it, frowned, and added a little honey.

“Better?” he asked.

“Less aggressive.”

They coated the chicken and broccoli, then slid the pan into the oven. Marcus wiped the counter. Nina loaded the dishwasher, rearranging two plates he had already put inside.

“They fit the other way,” she explained.

“They fit both ways.”

“But this way, the bowls fit.”

He watched her make room for the bowls. “I withdraw my objection.”

Twenty-five minutes later, they carried their plates to the small dining table. The rice was slightly sticky but not ruined. The broccoli had crisp edges, and the chicken was done.

Marcus cut into a thigh. “We should remember this.”

Nina reached for the salt. “We won’t.”

They ate while discussing a plumber’s estimate, her upcoming dentist appointment, and whether they could postpone mowing the lawn until Sunday. When Marcus offered her the last piece of broccoli, she split it with her fork and pushed half back onto his plate.

After dinner, he washed the sheet pan while she packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. The rain continued, steady and ordinary, as they turned off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, Mara had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, reading the instructions on a box of couscous. Her husband, Daniel, came in from the garage carrying two grocery bags.

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

“That works.” Mara opened the refrigerator. “Did you get lemons?”

Daniel held one up. “Last decent one in the bin.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of practice. Mara filled a saucepan with water while Daniel trimmed the ends off the beans. When she reached for the salt, he slid it across the counter without looking up.

“Chicken in the oven?” he asked.

“Not yet. I was waiting to see if you wanted paprika or that garlic blend.”

“Garlic. We had paprika twice last week.”

Mara coated the chicken thighs with oil and seasoning, then put them on a sheet pan. Daniel added the green beans beside them and tossed them with salt. While the pan roasted, he loaded the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Mara wiped the counter and checked the mail he had left near the fruit bowl.

“Electric bill went up,” she said.

“Air-conditioning.”

“It wasn’t even that hot.”

“It was hot upstairs.”

They agreed to raise the thermostat one degree and then forgot about it when the oven timer rang. Daniel squeezed lemon over the beans. Mara fluffed the couscous with a fork and tasted it.

“Needs butter,” she decided.

They ate at the small table by the window, with the sheet pan cooling on the stove. Daniel told her about a meeting that should have been an email. Mara described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice.

Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Mara washed the saucepan and handed it to him to dry.

“Same thing tomorrow?” he asked.

“Leftovers tomorrow,” she said.

“Even better.”

He turned off the kitchen light, and they carried their water glasses upstairs.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Elena came in through the garage carrying her laptop bag and a paper sack of groceries.

“I bought green beans,” she said, setting the sack on the counter. “They looked better than the broccoli.”

“Good. I was about to use the frozen peas.”

“You can still use them tomorrow.”

While Elena washed the beans, Marcus heated olive oil in a skillet. They had agreed by text that dinner would be chicken, though neither had specified how to cook it. Marcus suggested lemon and garlic. Elena opened the refrigerator, found half a lemon wrapped in plastic, and squeezed it into a bowl.

“Enough?” she asked.

“If we add mustard.”

She raised an eyebrow but handed him the jar. He whisked the sauce while she trimmed the ends from the beans, dropping them into a colander. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought—Marcus stepping aside so Elena could reach the salt, Elena closing the dishwasher with her foot before he backed into it.

The chicken cooked faster than expected. Marcus lowered the heat and checked the thickest piece twice. Elena steamed the beans, then tossed them with butter and pepper. When the couscous was ready, she fluffed it with a fork.

They carried their plates to the small table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. A delivery truck paused at the corner, its hazard lights blinking.

“The mustard works,” Elena said after her first bite.

Marcus nodded. “I’ll accept the apology you didn’t make.”

She smiled and nudged his ankle under the table.

They talked about an upcoming dentist appointment, whether the car needed new tires, and a message from Marcus’s sister. Elena saved half her chicken for lunch. Marcus finished the beans and stood to collect the plates.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“I’ll dry.”

The television stayed off. Water ran in the sink while they divided the leftovers into containers and checked the calendar for the next day.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a package of chicken thighs. Her husband, Daniel, came in from walking the dog, carrying a damp leash and two pieces of mail.

“Rain started,” he said, hanging the leash by the door. “Do we have a plan for dinner?”

“We have chicken, half a bag of green beans, and rice.” Maya held up the package. “I was thinking sheet pan, but the oven takes forever.”

Daniel opened the refrigerator and considered its contents. “Stovetop? Cut the chicken smaller, sauté it with the beans.”

“You do the chicken. I’ll start the rice.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of people who had bumped elbows many times. Maya rinsed a cup of rice while Daniel trimmed the chicken on a plastic cutting board. He asked whether she wanted garlic. She said yes, then changed her mind when she remembered her morning meeting.

“Too late,” he said, holding up one chopped clove.

“One is fine.”

While the rice simmered, Maya snapped the ends from the green beans and checked the mail. There was an electric bill and a grocery-store flyer. Daniel heated oil in a skillet, added the chicken, and stepped back from the splatter.

“Can you turn on the fan?”

Maya did, then wiped the counter and filled two glasses with water. They debated adding soy sauce or lemon. Daniel voted soy sauce; Maya pointed out the open lemon in the refrigerator. They compromised by using both, plus a little honey.

At the table, the chicken was slightly too salty, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot. Still, the beans were crisp, and the sauce tasted better than either of them expected.

Daniel reached for another spoonful. “We should write this down.”

“We won’t,” Maya said.

“No.”

They ate while rain tapped the windows. Afterward, Daniel packed the leftovers for lunch, and Maya filled the sink with hot, soapy water.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, rain ticked against the window over the sink. Marcus came in from the garage carrying a sack of groceries and set it on the counter.

“They were out of the pasta you like,” he said. “I got penne.”

“That is the pasta I like.”

“I thought you liked rigatoni.”

“I like both.” She took out a carton of eggs. “Did you get Parmesan?”

Marcus reached into the bag and produced a green plastic container. Elena looked at it, then at him.

“It was on sale,” he said.

She smiled. “That wasn’t criticism.”

They decided on pasta with scrambled eggs, green beans, and the last of a jar of tomato sauce. Marcus filled a pot and turned on the burner while Elena warmed the sauce in a small saucepan. When the water finally boiled, he poured in too much penne.

“Lunch tomorrow,” he said.

“If we have enough sauce.”

They added a little olive oil and garlic to stretch it. Elena stirred the eggs in a skillet, scraping the edges with a rubber spatula, while Marcus microwaved the beans. He opened the microwave too soon, tested one, and put them back for another minute.

They carried their plates to the small dining table, moving aside a stack of mail and Marcus’s laptop. Elena sprinkled Parmesan over everything. Marcus reached for the container after her.

“This is fine,” she said.

“High praise.”

They ate while discussing whether the car needed new tires before winter. Elena thought they should make an appointment Saturday; Marcus wanted to check prices first. Neither disagreed enough to argue.

Halfway through dinner, Marcus got up for hot sauce. Elena asked him to bring napkins, and he returned with both, plus two glasses of water.

The pasta was slightly overcooked, and the green beans squeaked between their teeth. Still, they finished their plates. Marcus packed the leftovers while Elena washed the pans. When she handed him the last wet fork, he dried it and put it away without asking where it belonged.


By six-thirty, Daniel had chopped half an onion and was standing at the stove, waiting for the olive oil to warm. His wife, Lena, came in through the garage carrying her laptop bag and a sack of groceries.

“I got spinach,” she said, setting both on the counter. “But they were out of the pasta we usually buy.”

Daniel looked into the bag. “Penne is fine.”

“It was this or shells.”

“You chose correctly.”

Lena smiled and went upstairs to change while Daniel added the onion to the pan. It hissed sharply. He lowered the heat, then opened a can of diced tomatoes and searched the spice drawer for oregano.

When Lena returned in sweatpants, she filled a pot with water and set it on the other burner. “Did you salt this yet?”

“I was leaving that important decision to you.”

She added a generous pinch. While they waited for the water to boil, she rinsed the spinach, and Daniel grated the last piece of Parmesan. They talked about a plumber who had left a voicemail and whether they could put off fixing the dripping basement faucet until Saturday.

“We said that last Saturday,” Lena reminded him.

“I know. This Saturday feels more serious.”

The pasta went into the pot. Daniel stirred the tomatoes while Lena cleared mail from the small kitchen table, sorting bills from advertisements. She held up a grocery coupon.

“Too late,” she said, and dropped it into recycling.

Ten minutes later, they drained the penne and folded it into the sauce with the spinach. Daniel tasted it and added pepper. Lena tasted it after him and added salt.

They carried their bowls to the table. Outside, a delivery truck idled at the curb, and someone walked a dog past their window. The pasta was a little softer than they preferred, but the sauce was good.

“Lunch leftovers?” Daniel asked.

Lena looked into the pot. “If you don’t go back for thirds.”

He reached for the Parmesan instead. “No promises.”

They ate slowly, discussing the weekend, until the kitchen grew quiet except for their forks against the bowls.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark and reflective. Leah stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Marcus searched the refrigerator for the jar of minced garlic.

“It’s in the door,” she said.

“I looked in the door.”

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

Marcus crouched and found it beside the mustard. “You’ve organized this place in ways that remain mysterious to me.”

They had both gotten home late—Leah from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Marcus from the insurance office downtown—and had agreed on pasta because it required little discussion. Marcus filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. Leah added the pepper to a skillet with olive oil and half an onion left from Sunday.

“Chicken sausage?” Marcus asked, holding up the package.

“Check the date.”

He did. “Still good.”

“Then yes.”

While he sliced the sausage, Leah opened a can of crushed tomatoes. A little sauce splashed onto her gray sweater.

“Of course,” she said.

Marcus handed her a dish towel. “It blends in.”

“It absolutely does not.”

They cooked side by side, shifting around each other in the narrow kitchen. Marcus stirred the sauce and added garlic. Leah salted the boiling water, then poured in the last of two different pasta shapes.

“Penne and rotini,” Marcus said. “Bold.”

“It’s called using what we have.”

He grated Parmesan while she rinsed two handfuls of spinach and folded them into the sauce. They discussed whether the car needed an oil change, whose turn it was to call Marcus’s mother, and a permission form Leah had forgotten in her work bag.

At the small table, Marcus tasted the pasta and reached for the salt.

“Try the cheese first,” Leah said.

He added Parmesan instead and nodded. “You were right.”

“I’ll write down the date.”

They ate from mismatched bowls, listening to the dishwasher hum. When they finished, Leah packed the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. Neither mentioned dessert until he found two chocolate cookies in the cupboard. They split them evenly and ate them standing at the counter.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Outside, rain darkened the parking lot of their apartment complex in Ohio.

“Roast or microwave?” she asked.

Marcus looked up from the cutting board. He was slicing two chicken breasts into thinner pieces so they would cook faster. “Roast. If we’re turning on the oven anyway.”

“We weren’t turning on the oven. You were going to use the skillet.”

He paused. “Right. Microwave.”

Elena poured the beans into a glass bowl while Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and the last of a jar of garlic powder. They moved around each other without much ceremony. She stepped aside so he could reach the oil; he opened the dishwasher so she could put in the bowl she had used for thawing the chicken.

“Rice?” he asked.

“There’s some from yesterday.”

Elena found the container behind a carton of eggs and divided the rice between two plates. Marcus heated the skillet, then laid in the chicken. It hissed loudly enough that he turned on the vent fan.

While it cooked, Elena microwaved the beans and sorted through the mail on the counter. She handed him an envelope from the electric company.

“Probably the new rate,” she said.

“Let’s eat before we ruin dinner with that.”

The chicken browned unevenly, but Marcus checked the thickest piece with a thermometer and declared it done. Elena added butter and lemon juice to the green beans. They carried their plates to the small table by the window.

Marcus took a bite and nodded. “Better than takeout.”

“Cheaper, anyway.”

They talked about a meeting Elena had the next morning and whether Marcus could pick up detergent after work. Halfway through dinner, he got up for hot sauce and brought back the electric bill too.

Elena sighed, but she opened it. They compared it with last month’s charge while finishing the rice. Afterward, Marcus packed the leftover chicken for lunch, and Elena filled the sink with soapy water. The rain continued outside, steady and ordinary, as they cleaned the kitchen together.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of onions and rain. Maya stood at the stove, nudging sliced onions around a skillet while Daniel came in carrying two grocery bags and a damp umbrella.

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

“That’s fine.” Maya glanced into the bag. “Did you get limes?”

Daniel held up two. “And cilantro, even though half of it will probably dissolve in the refrigerator.”

They had planned tacos because it was Tuesday and because neither of them wanted to think very hard after work. Maya added ground turkey to the skillet, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon. Daniel opened a can of black beans, rinsed them in the colander, and put them in a small saucepan.

“Spicy?” Maya asked, holding up the chili powder.

“Medium spicy. I have a meeting at eight tomorrow.”

She laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know. It feels related.”

While the meat browned, Daniel chopped a tomato and some cilantro. He cut the lime into uneven wedges, then warmed the tortillas directly over the gas burner until Maya told him one was starting to smoke.

“It’s not burned,” he said, dropping it onto a plate. “It’s charred.”

They carried everything to the small dining table by the window. Outside, headlights shone on the wet street. Maya assembled her first taco carefully: turkey, beans, tomato, cheese, cilantro. Daniel overfilled his and lost half of it onto his plate.

For a few minutes, they ate without talking. The food was warm and better than either had expected.

“We need dish soap,” Maya said.

Daniel reached for another tortilla. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“And paper towels.”

He opened the notes app on his phone. “Anything else?”

Maya looked toward the kitchen, where the skillet and cutting board waited.

“Maybe ice cream.”

Daniel smiled and typed it in. After dinner, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch while Daniel washed the pans. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, passing lids and towels, already discussing what to make tomorrow.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting the pendant light over the sink. Elena stood at the counter slicing a red pepper while Mark rinsed rice in a wire strainer.

“Too much?” he asked, holding up the measuring cup.

“For tonight, yes. For lunches tomorrow, no.”

He nodded and poured the rice into the saucepan. They had learned to make extra whenever possible. Buying lunch near their offices cost too much, and neither of them enjoyed deciding what to eat at noon.

Elena heated oil in a skillet and added the pepper, half an onion, and the last zucchini from the refrigerator. Mark opened a package of chicken thighs and patted them dry with paper towels.

“Paprika?” he asked.

“Paprika, garlic powder, salt. Maybe cumin.”

“We’re almost out.”

“Then not too much.”

He seasoned the chicken and placed it in the skillet. The oil snapped, and Elena stepped back.

“You could warn me.”

“I thought the sound was the warning.”

She gave him a look, then moved the cutting board to the sink. While the chicken cooked, she packed the remaining raw vegetables into containers. Mark wiped the counter and checked the rice, lifting the lid too soon.

“You let the steam out,” Elena said.

“It’ll recover.”

They ate at the small table beside the living room, with the television off. The chicken was a little darker than intended on one side, but still juicy. Mark added hot sauce. Elena mixed her rice with the vegetables.

“Do we need groceries tomorrow?” he asked.

“Milk, eggs, coffee. And something for Wednesday.”

“I can stop after work.”

She reminded him to take the reusable bags from the hall closet. He added the errand to his phone before he forgot.

After dinner, Mark scraped the plates while Elena divided the leftover rice and chicken into two lunch containers. He washed the skillet; she dried it and put it away. By seven-fifteen, the kitchen was clean except for the rice pot soaking in the sink.

“Tomorrow,” Mark said.

Elena turned off the light. “Tomorrow,” she agreed.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice for the third time. Their apartment overlooked a busy intersection in Columbus, Ohio, and the sound of buses sighing at the curb came through the cracked window.

“Two cups of water,” she said. “That seems like too much.”

Marcus set a package of chicken thighs beside the sink. “It’s what the bag says.”

“The last batch was mushy.”

“That was a different rice.”

Lena considered this, then poured in slightly less than two cups. Marcus smiled but didn’t comment. He washed his hands and began trimming the chicken while she added salt and turned on the burner.

They had planned tacos, but neither of them had remembered tortillas. After a brief discussion in the grocery store parking lot, conducted by text because Marcus had stopped on his way home, they settled on chicken, rice, and frozen green beans.

“Do you want garlic?” Marcus asked.

“Always.”

He seasoned the chicken with garlic powder, paprika, and more pepper than Lena would have used. She heated a skillet, then stepped aside so he could add the meat. It hissed loudly, spattering oil onto the stove.

While the chicken cooked, Lena microwaved the beans and mixed them with butter and lemon juice. Marcus flipped the thighs and checked the thickest one with the small digital thermometer they had bought after an undercooked Thanksgiving turkey.

They ate at the narrow table by the window. The rice was a little firm, but not enough to complain about. Marcus added hot sauce to everything. Lena picked a scorched piece of garlic from the pan and ate it with her fingers.

“Laundry tonight?” she asked.

Marcus looked toward the overflowing basket in the hallway. “One load.”

“Two.”

“One tonight, one tomorrow.”

She nodded. It was a reasonable compromise.

Outside, the light changed, and cars moved through the intersection. Marcus gathered the plates while Lena packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Then she filled the sink, and he went to sort the laundry.


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

“I stopped for tortillas,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “They were out of the small ones.”

Elena pulled out a container of leftover chicken. “Large is fine. We can make quesadillas instead of tacos.”

Mark sorted the mail into bills, advertisements, and something from the county. He opened the dishwasher and began putting away the clean plates while Elena shredded the chicken with two forks. Their kitchen was narrow enough that they had to negotiate around each other.

“Behind you,” she said, carrying an onion to the cutting board.

He moved aside and reached into a cabinet for the skillet. “Do we have cheese?”

“Bottom drawer.”

There was less cheddar than they expected, so Mark grated all of it while Elena sliced the onion and half a green pepper. She heated the skillet, added oil, and pushed the vegetables around with a wooden spoon. Mark opened a can of black beans and rinsed them in a colander.

“Should we save half for tomorrow?” he asked.

Elena looked at the chicken, then at the beans. “Yes. Lunch.”

They assembled two large quesadillas, scattering the cheese carefully so each had about the same amount. Mark cooked them one at a time, pressing the tortillas with a spatula. Elena mixed salsa with the last spoonful of sour cream and wiped the counter while she waited.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Mark said the county envelope was probably their property assessment. Elena said they could look at it after dinner, not during.

The quesadillas were slightly too crisp at the edges, but the onions were sweet and the chicken was still tender. They split the second one evenly.

When they finished, Mark packed the leftovers into two containers. Elena filled the skillet with soapy water.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“I’ll dry,” she replied, handing him the sponge.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark. Elena stood at the counter slicing bell peppers while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her. She had changed out of her work clothes but still wore her office badge, forgotten on its blue lanyard.

Marcus came in through the garage carrying the mail and a bag of groceries.

“They were out of the tortillas you like,” he said, setting the bag down. “I got the flour ones.”

“That’s fine. Did you get limes?”

He paused, then pulled two from his jacket pockets with a grin.

While Elena heated black beans with cumin and a spoonful of salsa, Marcus cut chicken breasts into strips. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. She opened a drawer just as he reached for it; he stepped back, then handed her the wooden spoon she wanted.

“Your mom called,” Marcus said. “She wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

Elena lowered the heat under the beans. “Can we decide after dinner? I’m too hungry to schedule my life.”

“Fair.”

Marcus cooked the chicken in a skillet while Elena sautéed the peppers. When the smoke alarm chirped once, he waved a dish towel beneath it and opened the back door. Cold November air slipped across the floor.

They assembled their dinners at the counter: rice, beans, chicken, peppers, shredded cheese, and lime. Marcus made a burrito. Elena put everything in a bowl after her tortilla tore.

At the small table, they ate with the evening news playing quietly in the living room. Marcus sorted the mail between bites, placing a utility bill near Elena and recycling two advertisements.

“The chicken needs salt,” she said.

“I thought you were watching me season it.”

“I was watching the beans.”

He reached for the saltshaker, added some to his burrito, and passed it over.

Afterward, Elena packed the leftovers into containers for lunch. Marcus loaded the dishwasher and wiped the stove, working at a stubborn spot of grease until it disappeared.

“Sunday?” he asked.

Elena closed the refrigerator. “Lunch, not dinner.”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll text her.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. The apartment windows looked west over a row of brick buildings, and the last sunlight made the dust above the stove visible.

“Ten minutes in a skillet,” she said.

Daniel set two chicken breasts on the cutting board. “That’s optimistic.”

“It says ten.”

“It also says ‘serves four.’”

Maya looked at the small bag and laughed. “Fine. We’ll make rice too.”

While Daniel trimmed the chicken, Maya rinsed a cup of rice and added it to the dented saucepan they had owned since college. He seasoned the meat with salt, pepper, and paprika, then paused.

“Garlic powder?”

“Definitely.”

They moved around each other without discussing it: Maya stepped aside so Daniel could reach the oil; he closed the cabinet she had left open. The kitchen was narrow enough that every task required negotiation.

Daniel heated the skillet while Maya sorted through the mail on the counter. She recycled two advertisements and set the electric bill beside his phone.

“We should pay that tonight,” she said.

“I’ll do it after dinner.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll do it while you pick something to watch.”

The chicken hissed when it hit the pan. Maya microwaved the green beans after deciding the skillet was too crowded, then dressed them with butter and lemon juice. Daniel checked the thickest piece of chicken twice before declaring it done.

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly undercooked, and one end of Maya’s chicken was too salty, but neither seemed worth fixing.

Daniel told her about a meeting that had lasted ninety minutes without producing a decision. Maya described the dog she had seen riding upright in the passenger seat of a pickup truck.

When they finished, Daniel carried the plates to the sink. Maya packed the leftover rice and chicken into one container for his lunch.

“Electric bill,” she reminded him.

He picked up his phone.

“Something to watch,” he reminded her.

She opened the streaming app, and together they began the usual search.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their townhouse in Columbus. Marcus came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and shaking water from his jacket.

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

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

He pulled two from the bag and set them on the counter with a small flourish.

They decided on chicken bowls, mostly because the chicken needed to be used. Elena measured rice and water while Marcus trimmed the beans. They moved around each other with the practiced caution of people sharing a narrow kitchen: she opened a drawer as he stepped aside; he reached for the cutting board after she moved the package of chicken.

“Should we make enough for lunch?” Marcus asked.

“Definitely. I have meetings straight through noon.”

He sliced the chicken into strips and seasoned it with salt, pepper, cumin, and too much smoked paprika. Elena noticed but said nothing until he sneezed.

“That’s what you get,” she said.

While the rice simmered, she rinsed the beans and added them to the skillet. Marcus squeezed lime over the chicken, then checked a message from his sister. Elena set two bowls on the table and filled water glasses from the refrigerator filter.

They ate beneath the hanging light, with the rain still going and the dishwasher humming behind them. Marcus thought the beans needed salt. Elena disagreed but passed him the shaker.

They talked about the electric bill, a neighbor’s barking dog, and whether they could visit his parents next month. Neither wanted to make the decision that night, so they agreed to check their calendars on Saturday.

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into two containers. Elena washed the skillet while he wiped the stove and found three grains of rice under the toaster.

“Lunch is handled,” he said, stacking the containers in the refrigerator.

Elena turned off the kitchen light. “That’s one thing, at least.”


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work shirt and was standing in the kitchen, turning a package of chicken thighs over in his hands.

“Sell-by date is tomorrow,” he called.

From the dining table, Elena looked up from her laptop. “Then tonight’s the night.”

They lived in a two-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, close enough to the highway that traffic made a steady hush beyond the windows. Marcus set a skillet on the stove while Elena finished an email. She closed the laptop, tied back her hair, and opened the refrigerator.

“Broccoli or green beans?”

“Broccoli. The beans look tired.”

“They’re fine,” she said, examining the bag. “But broccoli’s faster.”

Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Elena cut the broccoli into uneven florets and tossed them with oil on a sheet pan. When she opened the oven, she found the baking sheet from Sunday still inside.

“You left this in here.”

“I was letting it cool.”

“For three days?”

He grinned and moved it to the sink.

While the chicken browned, Elena measured rice into a saucepan. Marcus reached past her for the lid, and they bumped elbows.

“Small kitchen,” he said.

“Poor traffic management,” she replied.

They ate at the table with the mail pushed to one side. The chicken skin had gone crisp, though the rice was slightly sticky. Elena added hot sauce to hers. Marcus tried it, coughed once, and reached for his water.

“Too much?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Very balanced.”

They discussed whether the car needed an oil change, whose turn it was to call the dentist, and what they might do Saturday if it rained. Neither felt like making firm plans.

Afterward, Marcus packed the remaining chicken and rice into two containers for lunch. Elena washed the skillet while he dried the plates. She handed him the last bowl, and he put it away in the wrong cabinet.

She moved it without comment.

“Tea?” he asked.

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

He filled the kettle. Outside, the traffic continued, and inside, the dishwasher began its low, familiar hum.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen of their townhouse in Ohio, reading the cooking instructions on a bag of rice. Marcus came in from the garage carrying the mail and a sack of groceries.

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

“Fresh or canned?”

“Fresh. I remembered.”

Elena smiled and took the package from him. While she rinsed the beans, Marcus opened the mail, separating a utility bill from two advertisements and a postcard addressed to the previous owner. They had lived there for three years and still received the woman’s gardening catalogs.

“What do you want on the chicken?” Elena asked.

Marcus looked in the spice cabinet. “Paprika, garlic powder, salt?”

“And pepper.”

He seasoned four chicken thighs while Elena trimmed the ends off the beans. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen without discussing it. When Marcus needed the olive oil, Elena passed it behind her. When she opened the dishwasher, he stepped aside.

The chicken went into a skillet, skin-side down. It hissed loudly enough that Marcus turned up the exhaust fan. Elena started the rice and tossed the beans with oil and salt on a sheet pan.

“Twenty minutes?” she asked.

“Maybe twenty-five. These are thick.”

While everything cooked, Marcus fed the cat, and Elena packed leftover soup into a container for lunch. They compared their schedules for the next day. Marcus had an early meeting; Elena said she could take the car for its oil change after work.

They ate at the small table by the window. The chicken was crisp, the rice slightly sticky, and the green beans had browned at the edges.

“These are better than broccoli,” Elena said.

Marcus nodded. “That sounds like permission to forget broccoli again.”

“It is not.”

After dinner, he washed the skillet while she loaded the plates and containers into the dishwasher. Elena wiped the stove, Marcus turned off the kitchen light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of pasta sauce. Outside, a delivery truck groaned down their Ohio street. The kitchen window had fogged slightly above the sink.

“Tomato basil or roasted garlic?” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. “Garlic. We had basil last week.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember eating it for three days.”

Elena chose the garlic sauce while Marcus filled a pot with water. They had planned to cook chicken, but neither of them had taken it out of the freezer. Pasta became the backup.

Marcus salted the water and turned on the burner. Elena found half a zucchini and a small onion in the refrigerator. The zucchini was soft at one end, so she cut that part off and sliced the rest. Marcus opened the sauce and poured it into a saucepan.

“Should we use all of it?” he asked.

“If we want leftovers for lunch.”

He nodded and scraped the jar clean with a spatula. While the sauce warmed, Elena sautéed the vegetables in a skillet. Marcus washed the cutting board, then checked the pasta water. It still wasn’t boiling.

They stood side by side, listening to the local news from a small radio on the counter. When the water finally rolled, Marcus added spaghetti. Elena stirred the vegetables into the sauce and tasted it.

“Needs pepper,” she said.

“And red pepper flakes.”

“Not too many.”

He shook in a cautious amount. She gave him an approving look.

They ate at the small table by the window, with grated Parmesan from a green plastic container. Marcus talked about a meeting that had run long. Elena described a customer who had returned the same lamp twice.

Halfway through dinner, Marcus got up for more water and brought the saucepan back with him.

“Seconds?” he asked.

Elena held out her bowl. “Small ones.”

He gave her more than that. She noticed but didn’t object. Afterward, she packed the leftovers into two containers while he loaded the dishwasher, both of them already discussing what they might make tomorrow.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned into dark mirrors. Rachel stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a green pepper while the washing machine thumped down the hall.

“Do we have tortillas?” she asked.

Marcus opened the refrigerator, moved a carton of eggs, and checked behind a jar of pickles. “Three. Maybe four if that folded one is still usable.”

“It’s usable.”

“It’s shaped like Nevada.”

Rachel scraped the pepper into a skillet with the onions. “Nevada is a perfectly good shape.”

They had planned tacos because the ground turkey needed to be cooked, but neither of them had remembered to buy lettuce. Marcus found half a bag of shredded cabbage and held it up.

“Close enough?”

“Better, probably.”

He mixed the cabbage with lime juice and salt while Rachel browned the turkey. When the smoke alarm chirped, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it, and Rachel turned on the vent fan.

“It’s not burning,” she said.

“I know. The alarm is dramatic.”

Their dog, Penny, waited just outside the kitchen, watching every movement. Marcus dropped a strand of cabbage. Penny sniffed it, then looked offended.

While the tortillas warmed directly over the gas flame, Rachel checked the mail piled beside the fruit bowl. There was an electric bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard reminding Marcus about a dentist appointment.

“Thursday at nine,” she said.

“I moved it to Friday.”

“You should write that down.”

“I put it in my phone.”

They carried their plates to the small dining table. Marcus went back for hot sauce; Rachel brought two cans of seltzer. The tacos were messy, and one tortilla split immediately, spilling turkey onto Marcus’s plate.

“We should’ve made bowls,” he said.

“We say that every time.”

They ate while discussing whether the car’s strange noise could wait until Saturday. Rachel thought it could. Marcus wasn’t sure. They agreed he would call the mechanic in the morning.

Afterward, Rachel packed the leftovers for lunch, and Marcus washed the skillet before the grease cooled. Penny finally received a small piece of turkey. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb, its wheels rattling over the driveway, while the couple finished cleaning the kitchen.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a yellow pepper while Daniel rinsed rice in a metal strainer. They had both arrived home late—Maya from the library, Daniel from a dentist appointment followed by traffic—and neither wanted to order takeout again.

“Chicken bowls?” Daniel asked.

Maya nodded toward the refrigerator. “If the avocado survived.”

He opened the crisper drawer and pressed the avocado with his thumb. “Borderline.”

“Use it tonight, then.”

They worked around each other in the small kitchen, shifting automatically when someone needed a drawer or cabinet. Daniel measured rice and water into a saucepan, then checked the package because he never remembered the ratio. Maya cut two chicken breasts into strips and tossed them in a bowl with oil, cumin, salt, and the last of a jar of salsa.

When the skillet began to hiss, Daniel turned on the exhaust fan. It rattled loudly.

“We should clean that,” he said.

“You said that last Tuesday.”

“I’m building momentum.”

Maya laughed and handed him the cutting board. He scraped the peppers and half an onion into the skillet beside the chicken. While he stirred, she opened a can of black beans, drained it, and warmed them in a small pot.

They discussed whether to run the dishwasher that night and agreed to wait until after breakfast. Daniel mentioned a leaking faucet at work. Maya told him about a patron who had returned a book eleven years overdue. Neither story required much response, but each listened.

They assembled dinner in wide bowls: rice, beans, chicken, peppers, salsa, and the bruised but usable avocado. Daniel carried the bowls to the table while Maya filled two glasses with tap water.

The rice was slightly undercooked. The avocado needed more salt. Still, they ate everything.

Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for Daniel’s lunch. He washed the skillet and wiped the stove. When the counters were clear, they turned off the kitchen light and went to the living room, leaving the dishwasher full but quiet.


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

“I stopped for lemons,” he said, setting the sack beside the sink. “They were three for two dollars, so now we have too many lemons.”

“We’ll survive,” Lena said. She opened the refrigerator and pointed to two chicken breasts on a plate. “I was thinking skillet chicken, rice, and those green beans.”

Marcus loosened his tie. “I can do the chicken if you start the rice.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the practiced caution of people who had bumped elbows many times. Lena measured rice and water into a saucepan, then checked the burner twice because the printed markings had worn off. Marcus patted the chicken dry, seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika, and lowered it into a hot pan.

The smoke alarm chirped once.

“Not tonight,” Lena warned it, waving a dish towel while Marcus turned on the vent.

As the chicken cooked, they sorted the mail at the counter. Marcus recycled two catalogs and opened the electric bill. Lena found a reminder from the dentist and stuck it under a magnet shaped like Ohio.

“Can you go Thursday?” she asked.

“If you take the car Friday,” he said. “Mine needs that tire looked at.”

They agreed, then forgot the mail when the pan began to hiss loudly. Marcus squeezed half a lemon over the chicken. Lena microwaved the green beans and tossed them with butter and garlic powder.

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly undercooked, and one piece of chicken was darker than the other, so they split both pieces evenly.

Marcus told her about a coworker who had replied to the wrong email thread. Lena described a long meeting that should have been a message. Afterward, she packed the leftovers while he washed the pan.

“Lemon water tomorrow?” he asked.

“For the next three days,” Lena said, handing him a towel.


By six-thirty, the apartment windows had turned dark and reflective. Marisol stood at the kitchen counter slicing a red pepper while Daniel rinsed rice in a mesh strainer. Their work bags leaned together by the front door, one upright and one collapsed on its side.

“Half a cup or a whole cup?” Daniel asked.

“A whole. I want leftovers.”

He measured the rice into a saucepan, added water, and set it on the back burner. Marisol pushed the pepper slices into a bowl with chopped onion and opened a package of chicken thighs.

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

Daniel froze with his hand on the cabinet knob. “I saw the reminder.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’ll do it after dinner.”

She gave him a look, then smiled despite herself. “Put it on autopay.”

While the chicken browned in a skillet, Daniel mixed soy sauce, honey, and a spoonful of mustard in a coffee mug. Marisol tasted it with the tip of a spoon.

“More soy sauce.”

“It’s already salty.”

“Then water.”

They compromised with a splash of each. Daniel poured the mixture into the pan, and Marisol added the vegetables. Steam clouded the microwave door. She turned on the vent fan, which rattled loudly for a few seconds before settling into a hum.

They ate at the small table beside the living room, their plates balanced around a stack of mail. Daniel moved the envelopes to the empty chair.

“The rice is good,” Marisol said.

“You sound surprised.”

“Last time it was crunchy.”

“Last time you kept lifting the lid.”

She pointed her fork at him but didn’t argue. They talked about her meeting, his delayed train, and whether they needed laundry detergent. Halfway through dinner, Daniel took out his phone and paid the electric bill.

“Autopay?” Marisol asked.

He turned the screen toward her. “Autopay.”

Afterward, she packed two lunch containers while he washed the skillet. He left it soaking; she reached past him and scrubbed the sticky edge clean. Then he dried it, and together they turned off the kitchen lights.


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

“Four to six minutes in the microwave,” she said.

Marcus set two chicken breasts on the cutting board. “That means five.”

“That means check at four.”

He smiled and reached for the paprika. They had planned to make tacos, but neither of them had remembered to thaw the ground beef. Chicken, green beans, and rice had become the backup plan.

Elena measured rice into a saucepan while Marcus seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and too much garlic powder. She noticed but said nothing until he shook the container a third time.

“Are we expecting vampires?”

“I’m building flavor.”

She turned on the burner. “You’re building consequences.”

While the chicken cooked in a skillet, Marcus loaded the dishwasher with the mugs and cereal bowls they had left in the sink that morning. Elena microwaved the green beans, checked them at four minutes, and put them back for one more. When the rice began to boil over, Marcus lowered the heat before she could reach it.

“Saved it,” he said.

“Barely.”

They ate at the small table beside the kitchen, with the unopened mail pushed to one end. The chicken was slightly dry, but the rice had absorbed the pan juices, and the green beans were better after Elena added butter and lemon.

Marcus told her about a new employee who had called him “sir” all day. Elena described the long parent meeting at the elementary school where she worked. Between stories, they discussed whether to renew their streaming subscription and who would take the car for an oil change Saturday.

Afterward, Marcus packed the leftovers into one container for Elena’s lunch. She wiped the stove and handed him the skillet to wash.

“You used the garlic,” she said.

“You benefited from the flavor.”

She looked at the pan, then at him. “You’re still washing it.”

“Fair,” he said, turning on the faucet.


By six-thirty, Marcus had rinsed the rice and set the cooker humming on the counter. He stood in front of the open refrigerator, considering a package of chicken thighs, while cold air spilled around his slippers.

“We still have broccoli, right?” Elena asked as she came through the kitchen carrying the mail.

“Half a crown. Maybe enough if you don’t count the yellow parts.”

“I count them. I just don’t object to them.”

She dropped two envelopes and a grocery flyer on the table, then changed out of her work shoes. Marcus heated a skillet while Elena cut the broccoli into small florets. They had learned that dinner went faster if one person handled the stove and the other did everything requiring a knife.

“Garlic?” she asked.

“Two cloves.”

“You always say two and then complain it needs more.”

“Three, then.”

Elena smiled and chopped four.

The chicken went into the pan with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Marcus turned on the vent fan after the first curl of smoke rose toward the ceiling. Elena opened the window anyway, letting in the sound of a lawn mower from the house next door.

While the chicken browned, they compared schedules. Elena had a dentist appointment Thursday. Marcus needed the car Friday because his office was holding an in-person meeting. They agreed she would work from home that morning and wrote it on the calendar beside the refrigerator.

Marcus moved the chicken to a plate and sautéed the broccoli in the same pan. Elena mixed soy sauce, honey, and a little vinegar in a measuring cup. He poured it in, and the sauce bubbled around the vegetables before he returned the chicken to the skillet.

They ate at the small kitchen table, rice underneath the chicken and broccoli. Marcus added hot sauce. Elena picked up one of the yellow florets and held it toward him.

“Perfectly good,” she said, eating it.

Afterward, she packed the leftovers into two containers for lunch. Marcus washed the skillet, scraping at the sticky sauce, while Elena dried the plates and told him about a strange phone call at work. When the counters were clear, they split the last canned seltzer and stood together by the open window until the kitchen cooled.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter in her work clothes, slicing a red pepper while the rice cooker clicked and sighed beside her. Her husband, Daniel, came in from the garage carrying the mail and a bag of groceries.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting the bag down.

“That’s fine. We have parsley.”

“For tacos?”

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

Daniel laughed and loosened his tie. He sorted the mail into familiar piles: bills near the fruit bowl, advertisements in recycling, a postcard from the dentist on top of Mara’s keys. Then he washed his hands and opened the refrigerator.

“What can I do?”

“Drain the beans, please. And could you check whether the avocados are still good?”

One was soft but usable; the other had gone brown inside. Daniel scraped the good half into a bowl with lime juice and salt. Mara tipped the peppers and onions into a hot skillet. The exhaust fan rattled overhead, as it had for months.

“We should finally fix that,” Daniel said.

“You said that last Tuesday.”

“I meant it more sincerely this time.”

While the vegetables cooked, they compared their days. Mara described a meeting that should have been an email. Daniel told her about a coworker who had accidentally replied to everyone. Neither story was remarkable, but each knew where to laugh.

Daniel warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, turning them with tongs. Mara set out plates and moved a stack of unopened school-district flyers left by the previous owner. The dishwasher hummed, half full from breakfast.

They carried everything to the small dining table. Daniel went back for hot sauce; Mara remembered napkins. Before sitting, she nudged the thermostat down a degree.

“Movie later?” he asked.

“If you load the rest of the dishwasher.”

“Deal.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, they ate while the skillet cooled on the stove, already discussing whether there would be enough leftovers for lunch.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark, reflecting the pendant lights above the counter. Rachel stood at the stove in her work clothes, loosening the lid on a pot of rice while the exhaust fan hummed. Her husband, Marcus, came in through the garage carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag.

“You remembered the cilantro,” she said.

“I remembered the cilantro,” he confirmed, setting the bag down. “I forgot the limes.”

Rachel glanced at the cutting board. “We have half of one.”

“Then I planned perfectly.”

He hung his jacket on the chair instead of the hook. Rachel noticed but said nothing. Marcus sorted the mail into a neat pile: utility bill, grocery circular, a postcard from the dentist. Then he washed his hands and began chopping the cilantro while Rachel stirred black beans with cumin and garlic.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She smiled and handed him a spoon. “Taste this.”

He tried the beans, added a pinch of salt, and reached for the tortillas. Their cat, Olive, appeared at the sound of the refrigerator opening and sat expectantly near his feet.

“You already ate,” Marcus told her.

“She says that was hours ago.”

“She says a lot for someone who sleeps sixteen hours a day.”

Rachel moved the rice off the burner while Marcus warmed tortillas in a skillet. They worked around each other without much thought, opening drawers and stepping aside at the right moments. He filled two glasses with water and cleared a stack of unopened packages from the small dining table. She carried over bowls of rice, beans, shredded cheese, and the last half lime, cut into two narrow wedges.

Before sitting, Marcus went back to hang up his jacket properly.

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

They assembled their tacos while the dishwasher clicked through its cycle. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Rachel asked whether they needed to do the same.

“After dinner,” Marcus said, squeezing his lime over the beans. “Definitely after dinner.”


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room back at itself. Daniel stood at the counter cutting broccoli while his wife, Marissa, searched the refrigerator for the bottle of soy sauce she was certain they had.

“It’s in the door,” Daniel said.

“I’m looking at the door.”

“Top shelf, behind the mustard.”

She moved two jars and found it. “You could have just said behind the mustard.”

Their house sat on a quiet street outside Columbus, Ohio, close enough to the highway that they could hear trucks when the wind was right. Tonight, the furnace hummed under the floor, and a damp pair of gloves lay on the radiator by the back entrance. Marissa had dropped them there after taking the trash bin to the curb.

Daniel slid the broccoli into a hot skillet. Marissa measured rice into the cooker, rinsing it until the water ran mostly clear. They had both worked late—Daniel at the county office, Marissa from the spare bedroom upstairs—and neither had wanted to stop at the grocery store.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“I left a message.”

“For the upstairs sink?”

He gave her a look. “We only have one plumber problem.”

“You say that now.”

She opened a package of chicken and began slicing it into strips. Daniel cleared space for her, moving the cutting board and the pile of mail. A utility bill slipped to the floor. He picked it up, glanced at the total, and set it facedown.

They cooked without hurrying. Marissa added garlic; Daniel stirred the chicken and broccoli together. They talked about a meeting she had disliked, a coworker of his who had brought in doughnuts, and whether the neighbor’s maple tree needed trimming.

When the rice cooker clicked, Daniel filled two bowls. Marissa carried them to the small table near the window while he wiped the stove.

“You want sparkling water?” he asked.

“Only if there’s lime.”

He checked the refrigerator. “There’s lime.”

“Behind the mustard?”

He laughed, and for a moment the ordinary kitchen felt especially warm.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Maya stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel searched the refrigerator for the jar of salsa he insisted he had bought on Sunday.

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“The other milk.”

They kept two cartons now—whole for Daniel’s coffee, oat for Maya’s cereal—and the salsa was wedged between them. He held it up without comment, and she smiled as she swept the pepper strips into a bowl.

It had been a normal Tuesday in their Ohio suburb. Maya had spent most of the day answering emails at the dining-room table. Daniel had driven home through light rain, stopping at the mailbox before coming inside. A grocery circular and two envelopes still lay beside his keys.

They were making tacos because the chicken needed to be used. Daniel warmed it in a skillet with cumin and a little broth while Maya grated cheese. The vent fan hummed overhead. Somewhere upstairs, the dryer thumped unevenly.

“Did you put the towels in with the sheets?” Maya asked.

“Maybe.”

“That’s the fitted sheet eating everything.”

“I’ll rescue them after dinner.”

He tasted the chicken, added salt, and handed her the spoon. She tried it and nodded. They moved around each other without much thought: Daniel opening drawers, Maya reaching past him for plates, both stepping aside at the same moment and then laughing.

While the tortillas heated, they talked about a plumber’s estimate, Maya’s morning meeting, and whether they had enough gas in the lawn mower for Saturday. Daniel set the table. Maya filled two glasses with water and carried over the bowls of lettuce, peppers, cheese, and salsa.

Before sitting down, Daniel turned off the burner. Maya checked it anyway.

Rain ticked against the window as they assembled their tacos. Upstairs, the dryer stopped with a final dull bump.

“Your turn,” Maya said.

Daniel took a bite and nodded toward the ceiling. “After I rescue the towels.”


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the neighboring houses. Rachel stood at the kitchen counter in her socks, chopping a red bell pepper while the local news murmured from a small television near the refrigerator.

“Traffic was awful,” Daniel said, coming in through the garage door with a canvas grocery bag. He set his keys in the ceramic bowl by the mail. “They closed a lane on Route 9 again.”

Rachel glanced at the bag. “Did you get tortillas?”

He pulled out a package and held it up. “And cilantro. They were out of the small avocados, so I bought one enormous one.”

“That’ll work.”

Daniel loosened his tie and washed his hands. Their dog, Millie, followed him hopefully from the sink to the stove, where chicken sizzled in a cast-iron skillet.

“She already ate,” Rachel said.

“I know. She’s just making sure we haven’t changed the policy.”

While Rachel added the peppers and onions to the pan, Daniel rinsed the cilantro and began tearing off the leaves. They compared notes about the day: a meeting Rachel had expected to be difficult but wasn’t, a printer jam that had delayed Daniel’s report, and a text from his sister about Sunday lunch.

“Can we do noon?” Rachel asked. “I need to run laundry before we go.”

“Sure. I’ll tell her.”

Daniel warmed the tortillas over a gas burner, turning each one with tongs. Rachel opened the dishwasher, found it still full of clean dishes, and sighed.

“I forgot to empty this morning.”

“I’ll do it after dinner,” he said.

They carried everything to the small dining table: chicken and peppers, shredded cheese, salsa, cilantro, and the oversized avocado mashed with lime and salt. Daniel switched off the television. For a few minutes they ate without talking, listening to the furnace click on and Millie circle twice before settling under the table.

“These are good,” Daniel said.

Rachel nodded. “The giant avocado helped.”

Outside, a garbage truck rumbled down the street. Inside, they discussed whether the leftovers would be enough for lunch, and whose turn it was to take the bins to the curb.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark enough to reflect the room. Mara stood at the counter in her socks, slicing a red pepper while the local news murmured from a small speaker. Her husband, Ben, came in through the garage carrying the mail under one arm and his laptop bag over the other.

“Anything important?” Mara asked.

“Electric bill, grocery coupons, and something addressed to ‘Current Resident,’” he said. He dropped the stack beside the fruit bowl and loosened his tie. “So, no.”

She pointed with the knife toward the stove. “Can you start the rice?”

Ben washed his hands, then measured rice into the dented saucepan they had owned since their first apartment. While the water heated, he opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“Did we use the last of the soy sauce?”

“Door shelf, behind the mustard.”

He found it, along with a container of leftover broccoli. “Should we throw this in?”

Mara leaned over to inspect it. “Smells fine.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Ben chopped the broccoli while Mara browned chicken in the skillet. The dishwasher hummed beside them, still running from the load she had started that morning. On the refrigerator, a school fundraiser flyer from their neighbor’s daughter curled beneath a magnet shaped like Ohio.

“How was your meeting?” Ben asked.

“Forty-five minutes that could’ve been an email.”

He laughed. “Mine was an email that became a meeting.”

When the smoke alarm chirped once, Mara waved a dish towel beneath it while Ben opened the back door to the chilly November air. Neither seemed surprised.

They ate at the small table near the window, using paper napkins because the cloth ones were still in the dryer. Ben added hot sauce to his bowl. Mara reminded him they needed laundry detergent.

“Text it to me,” he said.

“You’re sitting right here.”

“I’ll forget by morning.”

She sent the text anyway. His phone buzzed beside his plate, and they both smiled before going back to dinner.