By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through the mail. The house still held the day’s warmth, though the October air outside had turned cool. She opened a window above the sink while Daniel set a grocery bag on the counter.

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

Maya examined the package. “These are fine.”

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

“Only when you overfill them.”

Daniel gave her a look and began unpacking cilantro, two limes, and a can of black beans. They had lived together for three years, long enough for the kitchen drawers to contain a mixture of her careful organizers and his loose collection of takeout menus, rubber bands, and batteries.

Maya rinsed peppers while Daniel heated a skillet. From the living room came the low murmur of the local news, followed by a commercial they both disliked. Daniel leaned around the doorway and muted the television.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed a decision, and then nobody made one.” She handed him a cutting board. “Your day?”

“The printer jammed twice. Kevin blamed the paper.”

“Was it the paper?”

“It was Kevin.”

They worked around each other without much thought. Maya sliced an avocado and warmed the beans with cumin. Daniel chopped onions, pausing to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. When a tortilla tore in the skillet, Maya raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Structural failure,” he said. “Unrelated to filling.”

“Obviously.”

They ate at the small table near the window, with the unopened mail pushed to one side. A pickup truck passed outside, its headlights briefly sweeping across the wall. Daniel mentioned that the lawn needed mowing one last time before winter. Maya reminded him they were visiting his sister on Saturday.

“Sunday, then,” he said.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers while she loaded the dishwasher. Maya turned off the kitchen light, and they carried their water glasses into the living room, leaving the clean counters and humming dishwasher behind them.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and into gray sweatpants, but Daniel was still wearing the button-down shirt he’d put on that morning. He stood at the kitchen counter slicing a bell pepper while she rinsed rice in a wire strainer.

“Did you get the landlord’s email?” she asked.

“About the water being shut off Thursday?”

Maya nodded. “Nine to noon, supposedly.”

“So, all day,” Daniel said.

They had lived together long enough to recognize the building’s flexible relationship with schedules. Their apartment, on the second floor of a brick duplex outside Cleveland, had narrow counters and a refrigerator that hummed loudly whenever the heat came on. A grocery list was held to its door by a magnet from a plumber.

Daniel tipped the peppers into a skillet with onions. Maya measured water into the rice cooker, wiped a few grains from the counter, and pressed the switch. They moved around each other without much thought—she opened the cabinet while he stepped aside; he handed her the soy sauce before she asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody opened.”

“That sounds productive.”

“It could’ve been an email.”

“Everything could be an email.”

Their cat, Ruthie, appeared when Daniel opened the package of chicken. She sat beside his feet, looking up with grave concentration. Maya filled Ruthie’s bowl before the cat could begin complaining, then gathered the mail from where Daniel had left it near the toaster.

“One bill, two ads, and something for the people downstairs,” she said.

Daniel stirred the skillet. “We’re out of dish soap.”

“I put it on the list.”

“You put ‘soap.’”

“I trusted you to interpret.”

When the rice cooker clicked, Maya spooned rice into two chipped blue bowls. Daniel divided the chicken and vegetables between them, giving her the larger share of peppers. She carried the bowls to their small table while he turned off the stove and checked the front door lock.

They ate with the local news playing quietly in the next room, discussing whether to watch an episode of their show or fold the laundry first. Both knew they would watch the episode and leave the laundry in the basket until tomorrow.


By six-thirty, Maya was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while Daniel stood at the counter chopping a red pepper. They had been home for less than twenty minutes. Their work bags still leaned against the entryway bench, and Daniel’s shoes sat where he had kicked them off, one on its side.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long,” Maya said, tipping cloudy water from the pot. “Everyone agreed the deadline was unrealistic, and then we kept the deadline.”

Daniel laughed. “Efficient.”

Their cat, June, circled his ankles, hopeful that the pepper might turn into chicken. Daniel nudged her gently away and opened the refrigerator.

“We have half an onion,” he said. “Is that enough?”

“It’s enough for a Tuesday.”

They were making stir-fry, the meal they defaulted to when neither had planned ahead. Maya started the rice cooker, then took a package of chicken from the refrigerator. Daniel heated oil in the skillet and added the onion. The exhaust fan rattled above the stove, as it had since they moved into the rental two years earlier.

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

“I emailed. He said he’d send someone.”

“When?”

“He used the phrase ‘soon as possible.’”

“So, never.”

Daniel stirred the onions while Maya sliced the chicken. They talked about the electric bill, her sister’s upcoming visit, and whether the towels in the washer had been moved to the dryer. Neither could remember starting them.

While the chicken cooked, Maya checked. The towels were still damp in the washer. She transferred them, cleaned lint from the trap, and returned as Daniel poured sauce into the skillet.

“You added too much soy sauce,” she said.

“I added confidence.”

At the table, they divided the rice and stir-fry between two chipped blue bowls. June jumped onto the empty chair and was promptly placed back on the floor. Daniel reached for the hot sauce; Maya passed it without being asked.

For a few minutes they ate quietly, listening to the dryer turn down the hall and the traffic moving past their windows.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect Nina standing at the counter, still wearing her office badge. She sliced a bell pepper while the washing machine thumped unevenly down the hall.

“Did you put the towels in with the sheets?” she called.

Evan looked up from the skillet. “Maybe.”

“That’s why it sounds like it’s trying to leave.”

He lowered the heat under the chicken and went to rebalance the load. Nina heard the washer lid open, then silence, then the machine starting again with a steadier hum.

“Fixed,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

Their rental house outside Columbus was small, but it had a gas stove and enough counter space for two people if they negotiated. Evan shifted the cutting board so Nina could reach the spice drawer. She handed him the cumin without being asked.

“How was the meeting?” he said.

“Forty minutes about a spreadsheet everyone already understood.”

“So, productive.”

“Extremely.” She tipped the peppers into the skillet. “Your day?”

“Three customers forgot their passwords. One insisted the website had changed his.”

Evan warmed tortillas over a burner while Nina opened a can of black beans. The smoke detector chirped once, and they both looked up.

“Battery,” Nina said.

“I’ll change it after dinner.”

“You said that Sunday.”

“I’ll change it after dinner tonight.”

She smiled and set two chipped plates on the table. A stack of unopened mail sat between the salt shaker and a bowl holding keys, loose change, and a dog-eared takeout menu. Evan moved the mail to the chair they never used.

They assembled tacos from the skillet, adding shredded cheese and the last of the salsa. Nina carried their water glasses; Evan turned off the stove and checked the knob twice.

At the table, he asked whether they should watch another episode of the detective show. Nina said yes, provided he changed the smoke detector battery first.

Evan took a bite and nodded solemnly. “Fair terms.”

From the laundry room came one final heavy thump. They paused, listening.

“After dinner,” Nina said.

“After dinner,” Evan agreed.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. The townhouse smelled faintly of the coffee they had forgotten to empty from the pot that morning.

“Two cups of water,” she said. “That’s what I did last time.”

Evan set a grocery bag on the counter and began unloading it. “Last time it came out crunchy.”

“It was textured.”

He held up a bunch of cilantro. “They were out of parsley. I panicked.”

Maya laughed and took the cilantro from him. They had lived together for eleven months, long enough to know which jokes would survive the end of a workday. Evan worked at a community college across town; Maya handled insurance claims from a desk in their spare bedroom. Neither had done anything remarkable that Tuesday.

While Maya rinsed the rice, Evan chopped an onion for tacos. He told her about a student who had slept through half his lecture and then stayed afterward to ask thoughtful questions. She described a phone call with a man who kept insisting that hail damage was “an act of personal betrayal.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when oil splattered in the skillet.

“Not tonight,” Evan said, pointing the wooden spoon at it.

Maya opened the window over the sink. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the alley. Their neighbor’s dog barked twice and stopped.

They moved around each other without much thought: Maya opened the drawer before Evan asked for the can opener; Evan shifted the cutting board so she could reach the salt. She warmed tortillas while he browned the meat and added seasoning.

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

“I scheduled it.”

“For today?”

He paused. “For tomorrow.”

“Close enough.”

They ate at the small table beside a stack of unopened mail. The rice was slightly undercooked, but the tacos were good. Afterward, Evan packed leftovers into containers while Maya filled the sink with soapy water. They argued mildly about which show to watch, then agreed on the one they had both claimed not to like.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the counters that morning. She stood at the stove in her work clothes, stirring onions in a skillet while trying not to splash oil on her blouse.

Evan came in carrying the mail and a reusable grocery bag. He set both on the small kitchen table, kicked off his shoes by the door, and kissed her cheek.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction on Fifth again.” He unpacked two tomatoes, a loaf of bread, and the Parmesan she had texted him about. “They were out of the cheap kind.”

“That’s fine. Did you get cat food?”

He stopped with the refrigerator door open.

Maya looked at him.

“I’ll go back after dinner.”

From the hallway, their cat, Pepper, gave a short, accusing meow.

“She has enough for breakfast,” Maya said, laughing. “You’re forgiven.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much discussion. Evan rinsed the tomatoes and chopped them while Maya added ground turkey to the onions. He opened the dishwasher to find clean plates still inside, so he put them away, pausing to match lids with plastic containers.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we needed another meeting.”

“Productive.”

She nudged him with her elbow. He sliced the bread and spread butter over it, adding garlic powder before sliding it into the toaster oven. Maya poured canned tomatoes into the skillet, and sauce hissed against the hot pan.

While the pasta boiled, Evan sorted the mail: an electric bill, a furniture catalog, and a wedding invitation from one of his cousins.

“October,” he said, showing her.

“Put it on the fridge. We’ll check the calendar.”

He pinned it beneath a takeout menu with a magnet shaped like Ohio. Then he filled two glasses with water and set out forks.

They ate at the table by the window, the blinds half-open to the parking lot. Pepper sat between their chairs, hopeful and patient. Maya told Evan about a coworker’s broken printer; Evan described a strange voicemail from his landlord. Afterward, he carried the dishes to the sink while she packed the leftovers for lunch, each already moving toward the next ordinary day.


By six-thirty, the light outside the kitchen window had faded, and the townhouse complex across the parking lot was beginning to glow with porch lamps. Maya dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and found Ben standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” she said, pulling off her shoes.

“I have ingredients,” he replied. “That’s close.”

They had both worked late—Maya at the county library, Ben from the spare bedroom they called an office—and neither wanted to order takeout again. On the counter sat two chicken breasts, a bag of spinach, and half a lemon. Maya checked the pantry and found a box of couscous.

“We can make this respectable,” she said.

Ben filled a pot with water while Maya changed into sweatpants. When she returned, he was trimming the chicken and listening to a podcast through one earbud. She nudged his shoulder.

“You missed the recycling pickup.”

He winced. “Again?”

“The bin is still full.”

“I’ll take it next week. Put it on the calendar.”

Maya opened the shared calendar on her phone and added it, smiling despite herself. Then she seasoned the chicken while Ben heated the skillet. The exhaust fan rattled overhead, as it had since they moved in eight months earlier. They had told the landlord twice.

As the chicken browned, Ben emptied the dishwasher. Maya stirred couscous and wilted the spinach with garlic. They talked about small things: a patron who had returned a book twelve years late, the neighbor’s dog barking during Ben’s afternoon meeting, whether they could afford a weekend trip in October.

When dinner was ready, they carried their plates to the small table beside the window. Ben went back for the hot sauce; Maya folded the unopened mail into a neater pile.

“This is better than delivery,” he said after the first bite.

“Cheaper, too.”

Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk. Inside, the dishwasher door stood open and the skillet soaked in the sink. Neither of them mentioned cleaning up yet.


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

“Did we use the last lime?” he asked.

“Check the door.”

“I did.”

“The other door shelf.”

Ben moved a bottle of hot sauce and found the lime behind it. “You have an alarming amount of faith in your refrigerator knowledge.”

“I bought the groceries.”

They had both come home tired—Maya from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Ben from the insurance office downtown. Their shoes were still by the front door, beside a stack of mail neither wanted to sort. A local news station murmured from the living room.

Dinner was tacos, chosen because the ground turkey needed to be cooked and because neither of them had the energy for anything complicated. Ben heated a skillet while Maya finished the peppers and opened a can of black beans. When the burner clicked without lighting, she reached past him and turned the knob back.

“You have to wait a second,” she said.

“I know.”

“You clearly don’t.”

He smiled and tried again. This time the flame caught.

While the meat browned, they compared their days. Maya described a second grader who had hidden under a table rather than practice his r sounds. Ben told her about a meeting that could have been an email. She laughed, then reminded him the recycling needed to go out.

“I’ll do it after we eat.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll do it before we eat.”

He carried the bin to the garage while she warmed tortillas directly over the gas flame, flipping them with tongs. When he returned, he set out two mismatched plates and filled water glasses.

They ate at the small table near the window. Halfway through dinner, Ben noticed the rent reminder on the counter.

“I’ll transfer my half tonight,” he said.

“No rush. Friday’s fine.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash can down the driveway. Inside, Maya reached for another tortilla, and Ben slid the plate toward her without being asked.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse still held the day’s warmth, though the October air outside had turned cool. She nudged the window open above the sink.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and his laptop case. “They were out of the good tortillas,” he said.

“Define good.”

“The ones that don’t tear when you look at them.”

He set the bag on the counter, kissed her cheek, and went to wash his hands. They had lived together for two years, long enough that dinner followed a loose rhythm. Whoever got home first started chopping; whoever arrived second handled the stove. Tonight they were making chicken tacos because the chicken needed to be used and because neither of them wanted to think harder than that.

Maya sliced the broccoli for roasting while Evan heated a skillet. “Did the plumber call?” she asked.

“Tomorrow between eight and noon.”

“So, noon.”

“At best.”

She smiled and handed him the cutting board of onions. He tipped them into the pan, and they hissed in the oil. On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from a vacation in Maine, their shared calendar showed a dentist appointment, a friend’s birthday, and the rent reminder they no longer needed but had never deleted.

Evan seasoned the chicken while Maya swept stray onion skins into her palm. They talked about her long meeting, his coworker’s new puppy, and whether they could put off laundry until Saturday. The smoke alarm chirped once when Evan opened the oven, and Maya waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Very professional kitchen,” she said.

“Five stars.”

They ate at the small table by the window, passing salsa back and forth. Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers into mismatched containers while Maya filled the sink with soapy water. Nothing about the evening was remarkable, but as they moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, each already knowing what the other would reach for next, the house felt settled and entirely theirs.


By six thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The townhouse was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the local news playing from the living room.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a paper grocery bag.

“You remembered the rice?” Maya asked.

He lifted the bag. “Rice, soy sauce, and the good sparkling water. I forgot scallions.”

“We have half an onion.”

“Close enough for a Tuesday.”

They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide dinner without discussing it. Maya chopped the broccoli while Evan set a pot on the stove and measured rice. He spilled a few grains on the counter, swept them into his palm, and dropped them in the trash beneath the sink.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

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

“Productive.”

She smiled and handed him a cutting board with two chicken breasts. “Your turn.”

While he sliced the chicken, Maya cleared yesterday’s mail from the small kitchen table: a utility bill, a grocery-store flyer, and a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. She added the bill to the stack beside her laptop.

“Electric’s higher again,” she said.

“We used the air conditioner all weekend.”

“You used the air conditioner.”

“The cat looked warm.”

From the hallway, their cat, Pickle, appeared and sat expectantly beside his empty bowl. Evan glanced down.

“See? Fragile.”

Maya fed Pickle while Evan started the chicken in a skillet. Soon the kitchen smelled of garlic and toasted sesame oil. She stirred the broccoli into the pan, and he found two mismatched bowls in the dishwasher.

They ate at the table with the news turned off, comparing weekend plans and debating whether the loose bathroom faucet could wait another month. Afterward, Maya packed the leftovers for lunch. Evan washed the skillet, leaving it upside down on a towel to dry.

Neither called the evening special. Still, when they settled onto the couch, their feet touching beneath a shared blanket, the house felt comfortably full.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect the room back at them. Lena stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper while Marcus searched the refrigerator for the container of leftover rice.

“It’s behind the milk,” she said.

“I looked behind the milk.”

“You looked beside the milk.”

Marcus shifted the carton and found the rice. “I stand corrected.”

They had both come home tired—Lena from the elementary school where she worked as a speech therapist, Marcus from a long afternoon of service calls for the internet company. Their shoes sat near the back door, his work boots beside her rain-speckled sneakers. Mail was spread across the small kitchen table: a grocery circular, a credit card offer, and the electric bill they had agreed to open after dinner.

Marcus put the rice in the microwave and began cutting chicken into strips. Lena heated oil in their wide skillet, then swept the peppers and onions in with the side of her knife. The vegetables hissed.

“How was the parent meeting?” he asked.

“Better than I expected. His mom brought a notebook.” Lena stirred the pan. “How was the apartment with the parrot?”

“The parrot knows a bad word now.”

“From you?”

“Absolutely not.”

She gave him a look, and he laughed.

While the chicken cooked, Marcus rinsed their lunch containers and stacked them in the drying rack. Lena filled two glasses with water and moved a pile of unopened mail so they would have room to eat. The microwave beeped. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor started a vacuum cleaner.

They assembled bowls with rice, chicken, peppers, and bottled teriyaki sauce. Marcus carried them to the table while Lena turned off the stove and checked that the front door was locked.

“We need dish soap,” she said, sitting down.

“And coffee.”

“And something for Friday. Your sister’s coming over.”

Marcus added the items to his phone. Then they ate, talking about whether to watch one episode of their show or finish folding the laundry first, both of them already knowing the laundry would wait.


Maya found Ben in the kitchen, still wearing his office badge, staring into the refrigerator as if dinner might announce itself.

“Anything promising?” she asked, setting her tote by the coat rack.

“Half a bell pepper, eggs, and several condiments.”

“There’s chicken in the freezer.”

“Frozen solid.”

Maya opened the pantry. “Pasta?”

“Again?”

She looked at him. “You’re welcome to order something.”

Ben smiled and reached for the pasta. “Pasta sounds great.”

Their townhouse outside Columbus was quiet except for the furnace clicking on and the faint thump of the neighbor’s washing machine through the shared wall. Maya changed into sweatpants while Ben filled a pot and cleared the breakfast dishes from the sink. When she returned, she chopped the bell pepper and an onion, sliding the scraps into the compost bin under the counter.

“How was the meeting?” Ben asked.

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

“Productive.”

“And you?”

“A customer yelled at me because his package went to Dayton.”

“Did you personally drive it there?”

“Apparently.”

They worked around each other without thinking much about it. Maya opened a can of tomatoes; Ben stirred the onions. He held out a wooden spoon for her to taste the sauce.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it always does.”

While the pasta boiled, Maya sorted the mail at the small dining table: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and an envelope addressed to the previous tenant. Ben packed leftovers from the refrigerator into containers for tomorrow’s lunches.

They ate on the couch with the local news turned low. Maya tucked her feet beneath her and reminded Ben that the landlord was coming Friday to check the leaking upstairs window.

“I’ll work from home,” he said. “Can you text me the time?”

“As soon as he gives me one.”

After dinner, Ben washed the pot while Maya dried it and put it away. Then she wiped the counters, he locked the back door, and they settled in to watch one episode of a show they both knew would become two.


By six-thirty, the light outside their kitchen window had turned gray-blue, and the neighbor’s porch lamp was already on. Maya set her laptop on the counter and rubbed the marks her headphones had left above her ears.

“Did you remember the rice?” she asked.

Evan looked up from the refrigerator. “I remembered to buy rice.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He smiled, then reached for the saucepan. “I’m starting it now.”

They had lived together for eleven months in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. The kitchen was narrow, with one drawer that stuck in humid weather and a dishwasher that needed a firm shove before it would run. Maya opened the drawer, tugged twice, and found the measuring cup.

While Evan rinsed the rice, she took chicken thighs from the refrigerator and arranged them on a sheet pan with broccoli. He found the bottle of olive oil nearly empty and held it upside down.

“Add it to the list,” Maya said.

“The list that’s on your phone?”

“The shared list.”

“I lost the shared list.”

“You left the shared list.”

“That sounds more intentional.”

She laughed and handed him the paprika. Behind them, the washing machine thumped unevenly in the utility closet. Evan paused to redistribute the towels, then came back carrying one of Maya’s missing socks.

Dinner took longer than expected because the oven had not fully preheated. They stood at the counter eating carrot sticks and talking about their days: her manager’s endless meeting, his customer who insisted a printer problem was “an internet emergency.” Neither story was remarkable, but each listened and asked the right questions.

When the chicken was done, Evan set out two mismatched plates. Maya spooned rice onto them and divided the crispest pieces of broccoli evenly.

“TV?” he asked.

“One episode.”

They ate on the couch with the coffee table pulled close. Afterward, Maya loaded the dishwasher while Evan wiped the counters and packed leftovers into containers for lunch. He pressed the dishwasher door until it clicked.

From the living room, the opening music began. Maya switched off the kitchen light, and they hurried in together.


Maya heard the garage door rumble as she was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink. A moment later, Daniel came in through the mudroom, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and leaned his forehead briefly against her shoulder.

“Long day?” she asked.

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

“Chicken stir-fry. The broccoli needs to be used before it becomes compost.”

Daniel took out the broccoli, a red pepper, and the package of chicken they had thawed that morning. Maya set the rice cooker on the counter, nudging aside a stack of mail. Their small rental house in Ohio had limited counter space, and dinner preparation usually involved moving the same objects from one surface to another.

“Did you call the landlord about the bathroom faucet?” Daniel asked as he began chopping vegetables.

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

“Might?”

“His exact word.”

Daniel sighed. “I’ll put a bowl under it tonight.”

Maya sliced the chicken and added soy sauce, garlic, and a spoonful of brown sugar to a mixing bowl. The local news murmured from the television in the next room. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower started, then stopped abruptly.

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

“I know. I haven’t answered yet.” Maya glanced at him. “Do you want to?”

“Sure. As long as we leave before your uncle starts explaining cryptocurrency again.”

She laughed and handed him the cutting board. He carried the vegetables to the stove while she heated oil in their scratched skillet. They worked around each other without thinking—Daniel opening drawers, Maya reaching past him for the spatula, both stepping aside at the right moment.

When the food was ready, they filled two chipped blue bowls and sat at the kitchen table, where Daniel moved a folded basket of laundry onto the empty chair.

“We should put that away,” he said.

“After dinner.”

They both knew it would probably wait until morning, but neither mentioned that.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, rinsing broccoli in a colander. The dishwasher hummed beside her, still full from the cycle they had run that morning. On the counter, her phone played a podcast quietly enough that she could hear Ben unlock the front door.

“Hey,” he called, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the mail.

“Hey. How was traffic?”

“Bad near the bridge.” He came into the kitchen, loosened his tie, and kissed her cheek. “What are we making?”

“Stir-fry. The chicken needs to be cut up, if you want to do that.”

Ben washed his hands, then pulled the cutting board from the narrow cabinet beside the stove. They had lived in the rented townhouse for almost two years, but he still opened the wrong cabinet first.

Maya smiled. “Every time.”

“I keep hoping you’ll reorganize it.”

“I did reorganize it. That’s why it’s there.”

While Ben sliced the chicken, Maya found the soy sauce and checked the rice cooker. They talked about ordinary things: a meeting Maya’s manager had scheduled for Friday afternoon, the strange noise Ben’s car had made that morning, whether they needed laundry detergent. Ben mentioned that the electric bill was higher than last month.

“Probably the air conditioning,” Maya said, tossing broccoli into the hot skillet.

“Or your habit of leaving every light on.”

“My habit?”

He grinned and handed her the chicken. “Our habit.”

The smoke alarm chirped once when oil splattered, and Ben waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window over the sink. Their cat, Olive, appeared at the kitchen doorway, hopeful and suspicious.

When dinner was ready, Ben carried two bowls to the small table by the window. Maya filled their water glasses and moved a stack of unopened mail from one chair.

“Movie tonight?” he asked.

“If you fold the laundry.”

“Deal.”

They ate while the rice cooker clicked into its warming cycle, and outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk.


By six-thirty, Marcus had changed out of his work clothes and was standing at the kitchen counter, peeling carrots into the compost bin. His laptop bag still leaned against the front door, beside Lena’s rain-damp sneakers. Outside their duplex in Ohio, a delivery truck groaned down the street.

“Did you get the chicken out?” Lena called from the laundry nook.

Marcus stopped peeling. “I thought you did.”

She appeared with a basket of warm towels balanced against her hip. “I texted you.”

“You texted, ‘Can you handle dinner?’ That’s open to interpretation.”

“It means thaw the chicken.”

He opened the refrigerator. The chicken sat exactly where they had left it that morning, solid as a brick. Lena laughed, set the basket on a chair, and pulled open the freezer drawer.

“Emergency ravioli,” she said, holding up a bag.

While water heated, Marcus chopped the carrots and the last half of a red onion. Lena folded towels at the table, matching them badly on purpose so he would refold them later. They talked about her staff meeting, his stalled commute, and whether the landlord had ever answered about the dripping bathroom faucet.

“No,” Marcus said, sliding vegetables into a skillet. “But I put a bowl under it.”

“A bowl. Our strongest defense.”

“It’s a good bowl.”

Lena found a jar of sauce in the pantry and checked the date. “Still alive.” She poured it into a saucepan, then wiped a red splash from the stove before it could dry. Marcus fed the cat, who had been circling their ankles as if neglected for weeks.

They ate at the small kitchen table with the unopened mail pushed to one side. The ravioli were slightly overcooked, and the carrots were still a little firm, but neither complained. Lena added “thaw chicken” to tomorrow’s shared calendar.

After dinner, Marcus washed the pans while Lena dried. The faucet kept up its patient drip into the blue bowl, marking time beneath their conversation about what to watch before bed.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, sorting through the mail. A grocery-store flyer, an electric bill, and a postcard from the dentist landed in separate piles beside the fruit bowl.

Marcus came in through the garage carrying his laptop bag and the reusable grocery sack they kept in his car.

“I got cilantro,” he said, lifting the bag onto the counter. “And tortillas. They were out of the small ones.”

“That’s fine. We can make enormous tacos.”

He kissed her cheek, then opened the refrigerator and stared inside as if something new might appear. Lena handed him the container of leftover chicken.

“You shred, I’ll chop.”

Their townhouse kitchen was narrow, so they moved around each other by habit. Marcus worked at the counter beneath the microwave while Lena rinsed a bell pepper and sliced it beside the sink. The dishwasher hummed, still running from the cycle she had started that morning. On the floor, a damp dish towel marked where she had wiped up coffee before leaving for work.

“How was the presentation?” Marcus asked.

“Long. Dennis used fourteen slides to say we need a new printer.”

“Maybe he really likes slides.”

“He really likes hearing himself talk.”

Marcus laughed and pulled the chicken apart with two forks. He told her about a customer who had called three times because he had forgotten his password, then remembered it during the third call. Lena heated a skillet and added oil. Soon the kitchen smelled of cumin, onions, and warm tortillas.

While the filling cooked, Marcus set two plates on the small dining table and moved a stack of unopened magazines to the empty chair. Lena spooned salsa into a chipped blue bowl they had bought at a yard sale.

“Trash goes out tonight,” she reminded him.

“I know.”

“You said that last week.”

“I know that too.”

They ate with the television off, comparing schedules for the weekend and debating whether the upstairs faucet was leaking badly enough to call the landlord. Afterward, Lena packed the extra filling for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin down the sidewalk, and Marcus glanced toward the door.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going.”


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her office clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. Her boyfriend, Daniel, came in through the garage carrying a grocery bag and the mail.

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

“That’s fine. Did you get lemons?”

He held one up.

They had lived together for almost two years, long enough that dinner usually came together without much planning. Maya filled a saucepan with water while Daniel trimmed the beans over the sink. Their dog, Otis, stationed himself between them, hopeful that something might fall.

“Move, buddy,” Daniel said, nudging him gently with a knee.

Maya opened the refrigerator and found the chicken they had thawed the night before. “Can you start the skillet?”

“Already on it.”

While the pan heated, she patted the chicken dry and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. Daniel sorted the mail into piles: a credit card offer for recycling, a utility bill for the desk, and a postcard from his dentist reminding him about an appointment he had forgotten.

“Thursday at eight,” Maya read.

Daniel sighed. “That feels aggressive.”

“You picked the time.”

“I was a different person then.”

She laughed and put the chicken in the skillet. It hissed loudly enough to send Otis out of the kitchen.

Daniel tossed the green beans with olive oil and slid them into the oven. Then he wiped the counter and loaded the cutting board into the dishwasher. Maya stirred the couscous, checked the chicken, and asked how his meeting had gone.

“Long,” he said. “But nobody added another meeting, so I’m calling it a win. How was your day?”

“Mostly emails. Nina brought cupcakes.”

When everything was ready, they carried their plates to the small table by the window. Daniel went back for water; Maya grabbed napkins and turned off the stove. Outside, someone rolled a trash bin to the curb. Inside, Otis settled beneath their chairs as they ate.


By six-thirty, the last of the daylight had faded behind the apartment buildings across the parking lot. Maya came through the front door carrying a canvas grocery bag and found Daniel at the kitchen counter, still wearing his work headset around his neck.

“Did you just finish?” she asked, setting down the bag.

“Three minutes ago. Someone discovered a problem at four fifty-seven.”

“Of course they did.”

Daniel took out a carton of eggs, a bunch of scallions, and a bag of rice. Maya slipped off her shoes and nudged them beside his sneakers, which had drifted into the hallway again.

They had planned to make fried rice with the leftovers from Sunday. Daniel opened the refrigerator and frowned at the crowded shelves.

“Where’s the rice?”

“Behind the yogurt.”

“There are six yogurts.”

“The big container.”

He found it eventually, while Maya changed into sweatpants and returned with her hair tied back. She washed the scallions and chopped them at the small counter beside the stove. Daniel cracked eggs into a chipped blue bowl they had bought at a yard sale during their first month living together.

“How was the staff meeting?” he asked.

“Long. We spent twenty minutes choosing a date for the next meeting.”

“That sounds productive.”

She gave him a look, then smiled.

Daniel scrambled the eggs while Maya emptied the rice into the pan. They added frozen peas, soy sauce, and the last spoonful of chili crisp. The smoke alarm chirped once when the pan got too hot, and Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it.

“You’re making it worse,” Maya said, opening the window.

“It’s a proven technique.”

When dinner was ready, they carried their bowls to the small table by the window. A stack of unopened mail occupied one chair, so Maya moved it to the counter.

“We should deal with that tonight,” she said.

Daniel took a bite. “Absolutely.”

Neither of them moved toward the mail. Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb, and inside, the dishwasher hummed through yesterday’s plates.


By six-thirty, the light outside the kitchen window had faded to gray. Maya stood at the counter slicing peppers while Daniel rinsed rice in a metal strainer. They had both changed out of their work clothes—Maya into sweatpants and an old college T-shirt, Daniel into jeans and a sweatshirt with a frayed cuff.

“Did you get the mail?” Maya asked.

Daniel paused. “I brought it inside.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It’s on the table,” he admitted. “Unopened.”

She smiled and nudged the cutting board toward him. “Then you’re in charge of these.”

Their rental house was small, a two-bedroom on a quiet street outside Columbus. The second bedroom served as Daniel’s office and storage for everything they had not decided where to put. In the kitchen, a grocery list was held to the refrigerator by a magnet from a plumbing company. Someone had written coffee twice.

Daniel added the peppers to a skillet with onions and chicken. The oil hissed.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.”

“Productive.”

“What about your day?”

He shrugged. “A customer called because he forgot his password. Then he got mad at me because he forgot his password.”

Maya opened the dishwasher and found it clean. “Oh, no.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean we forgot to empty this again.”

Together they put away plates and glasses while the rice simmered. Daniel found a plastic lid with no matching container and held it up.

“Trash?”

“We’ll need it the second we throw it away.”

He returned it to the drawer.

When dinner was ready, they filled two bowls and carried them to the table, moving the mail and a tape measure to one side. Maya opened an envelope from the electric company while Daniel fetched hot sauce.

“Bill went up,” she said.

“Heat stays at sixty-eight.”

“Sixty-nine.”

They looked at each other.

“Sixty-eight at night,” Daniel offered.

Maya nodded. “Deal.”

Outside, a neighbor rolled a trash bin to the curb. Daniel glanced through the window, then groaned.

“Trash night.”

“I cooked,” Maya said.

“You chopped.”

“I chopped beautifully.”

He laughed, pulled on his shoes, and carried the bin out before the food got cold.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had gone dark enough to reflect Lena standing at the counter, still wearing her office cardigan. She sliced a bell pepper while the rice cooker clicked softly beside her.

Marcus came in through the back door carrying the mail and a grocery bag. He set both on the table, then bent to scratch their dog behind the ears.

“You remembered the limes,” Lena said.

“I remembered two limes,” he replied, holding them up. “And forgot the cilantro.”

“We have parsley.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s green. We’ll survive.”

They had lived in the small Ohio rental for nearly three years, long enough to stop noticing the chipped tile by the stove and to know which cabinet door needed lifting before it would close. Marcus changed out of his work boots near the basement stairs, washed his hands, and opened a can of black beans.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

Lena sighed. “Forty minutes about a spreadsheet nobody reads.”

“Productive.”

“Very.”

He warmed the beans with cumin while she added chicken and peppers to the skillet. They moved around each other without much thought: she stepped aside for the oil; he reached over her for the salt. When the dog began circling, Marcus dropped a stray piece of pepper into her bowl.

The mail turned out to be a utility bill, a supermarket flyer, and a wedding invitation from one of Lena’s cousins. Marcus glanced at the envelope.

“June,” he said. “We free?”

“Probably. Don’t read anything into it.”

“I was reading the date.”

She smiled and bumped his hip with hers.

They ate at the little table under the buzzing pendant light, building bowls with rice, beans, chicken, peppers, shredded cheese, and lime. Marcus mentioned that the bathroom faucet had started dripping again. Lena said the landlord had promised to fix it last month.

After dinner, she packed leftovers for their lunches while he loaded the dishwasher, fitting the skillet in at an angle. Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Inside, the rice cooker stayed warm until Lena finally remembered to unplug it.


By six-thirty, Lena was rinsing rice in the kitchen sink while Marcus stood at the counter cutting a bell pepper into uneven strips. They had both changed out of their work clothes: Lena wore an old college sweatshirt, and Marcus had traded his button-down for a T-shirt with a faded baseball logo.

“Did you get the mail?” Lena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I thought you did.”

She looked toward the front door, where their shoes, reusable grocery bags, and a folded umbrella had accumulated on the mat. “I’ll get it when I take the recycling out.”

Their townhouse was small enough that the kitchen opened directly into the living room. From the stove, Lena could see Marcus’s laptop on the coffee table, still open to a spreadsheet, and the blanket they had left tangled on the couch that morning.

Marcus slid the peppers into a skillet with onions. They hissed in the oil. “Chicken next?”

“Give the onions another minute.”

He nodded and reached for the wooden spoon. Cooking together had become easier since they moved in eight months earlier. At first, they had bumped elbows and disagreed about when things were done. Now Marcus handled most of the chopping, while Lena kept track of timing and seasoning.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at it.

“My sister wants to know if we’re coming Sunday.”

“To your parents’?”

“Apparently.”

Marcus stirred the vegetables. “We can. I just need to finish the laundry before then.”

“You mean start the laundry.”

“Technically, starting is part of finishing.”

Lena laughed and measured water into the rice cooker. Marcus added the chicken to the skillet, then wiped the counter where a few pepper seeds had scattered.

While dinner cooked, Lena carried the recycling bin outside and returned with two envelopes and a grocery flyer. Marcus set plates on the narrow table, moving a stack of unopened magazines to the windowsill.

They ate beside the hum of the dishwasher, talking about a delayed meeting, the neighbor’s barking dog, and whether they needed more coffee. Nothing important had happened that day, and neither of them seemed disappointed by that.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing barefoot in the kitchen, reading the directions on a box of couscous. The dishwasher hummed beside her. Through the window over the sink, the last light caught on the neighboring apartment building’s fire escape.

“Ten minutes,” she called.

Evan came in from the small patio carrying the recycling bin. “For dinner or until you admit we should order pizza?”

“For the couscous. And we’re not ordering pizza. The chicken has to be cooked tonight.”

He slid the bin under the counter and opened the refrigerator. They had lived together for two years, long enough that he knew where everything belonged, though he still left the mustard on the wrong shelf. He took out the chicken and a bag of green beans.

“How was the meeting?” Maya asked.

“Forty-five minutes to decide we need another meeting.” He set a skillet on the stove. “You?”

“Two customers yelled at me. One apologized afterward, so I’m counting that as a win.”

Evan seasoned the chicken while Maya trimmed the beans over the sink. Their gray cat, Pepper, appeared at the sound of the package opening and sat between them with exaggerated patience.

“You already ate,” Maya told her.

Pepper blinked.

A few minutes later, the smoke alarm chirped when oil spattered in the hot pan. Evan waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the patio door, laughing.

“Very professional,” she said.

“I had it under control.”

They ate at the small table they had bought secondhand, pushing aside a stack of mail and Maya’s laptop. The couscous was slightly mushy, but the chicken was good. They talked about whether they could afford new tires before their weekend trip and whose turn it was to call the landlord about the dripping bathroom faucet.

Afterward, Evan packed the leftovers into containers while Maya loaded the dishwasher. She left the mustard where he had put it.

“Movie?” he asked.

“One episode,” she said.

They both knew it would probably be three.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and laundry detergent. Maya stood at the stove, stirring rice in a dented saucepan, while Daniel came in carrying the mail and a paper bag from the corner market.

“They were out of cilantro,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I got parsley, but I know that’s not the same.”

“It’s definitely not the same.” She smiled and lifted the lid from the pot. “But we’ll survive.”

Daniel loosened his tie and started unpacking groceries: two limes, a can of black beans, and the hot sauce they both liked. Their cat, Pepper, appeared from the hallway and inspected the empty bag.

“How was your meeting?” Maya asked.

“Long. Everyone agreed we need another meeting.” He rinsed the beans in a colander. “How was the dentist?”

“No cavities. They did give me the speech about flossing.”

“You own floss.”

“I also own a yoga mat.”

He laughed, and she nudged him with her hip as she reached for the cumin. They had lived together for almost two years, long enough to move around the small kitchen without asking each other to step aside. Daniel chopped a bell pepper while Maya warmed tortillas directly over a burner, flipping each one with tongs.

On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from New Orleans, a utility bill waited to be paid. Daniel noticed it and said, “I’ll handle the electric after dinner.”

“Can you also check the internet bill? It went up again.”

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

Maya gave him a look.

“Tomorrow?” he suggested.

“Tomorrow.”

They assembled their bowls at the counter—rice, beans, peppers, shredded cheese, and parsley pretending to be cilantro. Daniel carried both bowls to the small table by the window while Maya filled two glasses with water.

Outside, traffic moved through the damp street. Inside, the dryer buzzed.

“I’ll fold if you wash the dishes,” Daniel said.

“Deal,” Maya replied, already reaching for the hot sauce.


Maya heard the garage door rattling open just as she finished rinsing the rice. She set the pot on the stove and checked the clock above the refrigerator: 6:17. Daniel came in through the laundry room carrying his laptop bag and a paper sack from the neighborhood market.

“I got cilantro,” he announced, toeing off his shoes. “And limes. They were out of the little ones, so I bought four enormous ones.”

Maya looked inside the sack. “These could be softballs.”

“They were sixty-nine cents each. I panicked.”

Their townhouse smelled faintly of the candle they had burned the night before and the onions Maya had begun sautéing. Daniel changed out of his work shirt while she opened a can of black beans. When he returned in sweatpants, he washed his hands and took over at the cutting board.

“How was the meeting?” she asked.

“Long. Greg used the phrase ‘circle back’ six times.”

“Only six?”

“I started counting late.”

Maya laughed and nudged the skillet toward him. He added sliced peppers while she seasoned the beans with cumin and found the tortillas behind a container of leftover soup. The dishwasher was still full from the night before, so Daniel unloaded it between stirring the vegetables, stacking plates in the cabinet and handing her the colander she had been searching for.

They talked about whether the electric bill seemed high, his sister’s upcoming visit, and the damp towel someone had left on the bathroom floor.

“Someone?” Daniel said.

“The responsible party knows who he is.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ll speak to him.”

By seven, they had assembled bowls with rice, beans, peppers, avocado, and far too much cilantro. Maya carried them to the small table by the window while Daniel filled two glasses with water.

Outside, a neighbor dragged trash bins to the curb. Inside, Daniel squeezed half a giant lime over his dinner and immediately regretted it.

Maya slid him her napkin. “You panicked again.”

“Apparently that’s my thing today,” he said, and they began to eat.


By six-thirty, Maya had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen in socks, slicing a yellow pepper. The townhouse was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the local news playing softly from a speaker on the counter.

Evan came in through the garage carrying a canvas grocery bag. He set it beside the sink and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Traffic?” she asked.

“Construction again. I got the tortillas, though.”

“Did you remember cilantro?”

He paused, then reached into the bag with exaggerated caution. “Yes.”

Maya laughed. “Good. You can stay.”

They had lived together for nearly two years, long enough that dinner followed familiar patterns. She chopped vegetables while he rinsed black beans and warmed a skillet. Their cat, Olive, appeared from the hallway and sat beside her empty bowl, although she had been fed less than an hour earlier.

“Don’t believe her,” Maya said. “She’s running a scam.”

Evan looked down at Olive. “A convincing scam.”

He opened the refrigerator and shifted a carton of eggs, two jars of salsa, and a container of leftovers to make room for the groceries. “We should clean this out.”

“You say that every Tuesday.”

“And someday, on a Tuesday, I’ll mean it.”

They talked about small things while the onions softened: Maya’s long meeting, Evan’s coworker bringing doughnuts, the utility bill that had arrived that morning. He stirred cumin into the beans, and she set plates on the narrow table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins to the curb.

When everything was ready, they carried the skillet, tortillas, and bowls of toppings to the table. Evan noticed Maya had left her laptop open on the couch.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Maybe for twenty minutes.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Thirty,” she admitted.

They sat down, knees bumping beneath the table. Olive settled between their chairs, hopeful and patient. Evan handed Maya the salsa, and she passed him the cheese without being asked.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed them both home. Maya stood at the kitchen counter slicing a bell pepper while Daniel changed out of his work shoes near the front door.

“Did you get the rice?” she called.

Daniel stopped with one sock half off. “I thought you said we had rice.”

“I said we had enough for lunch.”

He checked the pantry anyway, moving aside a box of cereal and two cans of black beans. At the back, he found a nearly empty bag. “This is at least half a cup.”

“For two people?”

“If we believe in ourselves.”

Maya laughed and slid the peppers into a bowl. They had lived together for fourteen months, long enough to know which jokes would prevent a minor annoyance from becoming an argument. Daniel pulled on slippers, washed his hands, and began chopping an onion. He cut it unevenly, as always, but Maya had stopped correcting him.

They decided to stretch the rice with the black beans. While Daniel opened a can, Maya heated oil in the scratched skillet they had bought at a thrift store when they first moved in. The kitchen was narrow, so they worked around each other by habit: she stepped aside for the colander; he reached above her for the cumin.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“Forty minutes that should’ve been an email.” She tipped the peppers into the pan. “How was traffic?”

“Forty minutes that should’ve been a train.”

The dishwasher hummed beside them, still full of clean dishes from the night before. Daniel unloaded plates while the rice simmered. Maya wiped a splash of tomato sauce from the stove and set two glasses of water on the small table by the window.

When dinner was ready, they divided the rice, beans, and vegetables between two chipped blue bowls. Daniel added hot sauce; Maya took the last clean napkin.

Outside, tires hissed on the wet street. Inside, they ate with their knees almost touching, discussing whether they needed laundry detergent and whose turn it was to call the landlord about the bathroom faucet.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had stripped the sheets from the bed and started the first load of laundry. Marcus stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and comparing the grocery list with the contents of the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he called.

“Three eggs,” Lena answered from the hallway. “That’s not a week’s worth.”

Marcus added eggs to the list. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that Saturday errands went better if they left before the stores became crowded.

While the washer ran, Lena wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced an empty roll of toilet paper. Marcus took the recycling to the bins behind their apartment building, then vacuumed the living room. At ten-thirty, they carried two baskets of clean clothes upstairs, left them unfolded on the bed, and drove to the supermarket.

The parking lot was already busy. Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked items off on his phone. In produce, she chose tomatoes and rejected a bag of wilted spinach. He picked up apples, onions, and a bunch of bananas.

“Do we need rice?” Lena asked.

Marcus thought for a moment. “No, but we’re out of olive oil.”

They split up briefly. Lena went for yogurt and milk while Marcus found canned beans, pasta, and dish soap. They met near the frozen foods, where they debated buying a pizza before deciding it would be useful on a tired weeknight.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten coffee. Marcus hurried back while Lena unloaded the cart and arranged their coupons. The total was higher than they expected, so in the car they agreed to cook at home that evening instead of ordering takeout.

Back at the apartment, Marcus carried in the heavier bags while Lena cleared space in the pantry. They put everything away together, then folded the laundry while a baseball game played quietly on television.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. Lena made sandwiches, and Marcus opened the windows. They ate at the small kitchen table, pleased to have nothing else scheduled.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was kneeling beneath the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The cabinet floor was damp again.

“It’s the drainpipe,” he said, removing the flashlight. “I think I can tighten it, but we should get plumber’s tape.”

Lena added it to the list on her phone. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for almost two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop disagreeing about the best way to load the dishwasher.

While the towels spun, Marcus carried recycling to the bins behind the building. Lena stripped the bed and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. She texted him another addition to the list.

They drove first to the hardware store. Marcus found the tape and a new sink washer while Lena compared prices on furnace filters. Afterward, they crossed the parking lot to the supermarket.

Inside, Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked their shared grocery list. They bought eggs, coffee, chicken thighs, spinach, rice, and a bag of apples. Marcus suggested frozen pizza for dinner. Lena pointed out that they already had dough in the freezer.

“You said that dough was an experiment,” he reminded her.

“It can still become pizza.”

Near the checkout, they realized they had forgotten milk. Marcus jogged back while Lena unloaded the cart. He returned carrying milk and, without comment, the chocolate cookies she liked.

At home, Lena moved the towels to the dryer and remade the bed. Marcus replaced the washer beneath the sink and wrapped the pipe threads with tape. They ran the faucet together, watching for drips.

“Dry,” Lena said after a minute.

Marcus stood and rubbed his sore knee. “That deserves pizza.”

They put away the groceries, then rolled out the thawed dough side by side. The crust came out uneven and slightly burned at one edge, but they ate it at the kitchen table while the dryer hummed down the hall.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, trying to fit an empty cereal box into the recycling bin.

“You have to flatten it,” Lena called from the hallway.

“I was testing the bin’s limits,” he said, but he broke down the box anyway.

They lived together in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Neither of them had much planned for the weekend, but the list on the refrigerator had grown all week: groceries, detergent, lightbulbs, return library books.

Marcus gathered the books while Lena moved the towels to the dryer. Before leaving, they took turns carrying trash and recycling down to the building’s bins. Then Lena drove to the library, where Marcus dropped the books through the return slot and picked up a novel he had reserved.

At the grocery store, they divided the list. Lena chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus found coffee, pasta, and the laundry detergent they usually bought. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get yogurt?” Lena asked.

“It wasn’t on my side.”

“There are no sides.”

Marcus went back for it. Lena added a frozen pizza to the cart for dinner, and he picked out a bag of apples after rejecting several with bruises. At checkout, they used coupons from the store’s app and packed the bags themselves.

Back home, Marcus carried most of the groceries upstairs while Lena made a second trip for the detergent and a case of sparkling water. They put everything away together, pausing to wipe a sticky shelf in the refrigerator.

After lunch, Lena folded the towels on the couch. Marcus replaced the burned-out bulb above the stove, then vacuumed the living room while she cleaned the bathroom sink.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee. They sat at the kitchen table, tired but satisfied, and shared the last two cookies from a package they had decided not to replace.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Daniel had started a load of towels without checking the pockets, and one of Maya’s lip balms was knocking around inside.

“You owe me a new one,” she said, holding up the dented tube after they rescued it.

“I’ll add it to the list,” Daniel replied. He opened the notes app on his phone. “Lip balm, coffee, eggs, dish soap.”

“And actual food,” Maya said.

They spent the next hour dividing chores in their one-bedroom apartment outside Denver. Maya changed the sheets and wiped down the bathroom while Daniel vacuumed and took the recycling to the bins behind the building. When he returned, she was standing in the kitchen, trying to fit leftovers into mismatched containers.

“Lunch first?” he asked.

They ate reheated pasta at the counter, then drove to the grocery store. The parking lot was crowded, and Daniel circled twice before Maya spotted a car backing out near the garden center.

Inside, Maya pushed the cart while Daniel checked their list. They compared prices on chicken thighs, chose store-brand cereal, and debated whether they would really eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled.

“We said that last week,” Maya reminded him.

“And we almost did,” Daniel said, putting the smaller bag in the cart.

At the checkout, Maya noticed they had forgotten coffee. Daniel jogged back while she unloaded groceries onto the belt. He returned slightly out of breath with two bags, one regular and one decaf.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in three trips. Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya washed berries and divided the chicken into freezer bags. Afterward, they folded the towels together on the couch.

By late afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Maya checked the list and crossed off the last item.

“We forgot lightbulbs,” Daniel said.

She looked toward the dark lamp beside the couch.

“Tomorrow,” they said at the same time.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. She added it to the list taped to the refrigerator.

Marcus came in from taking the recycling downstairs, carrying an empty cardboard box under one arm. “We’re also out of coffee,” he said.

“We have coffee.”

“We have decaf.”

Lena sighed and wrote coffee beneath detergent. They had lived together in the Ohio apartment for almost two years, long enough to know which shortages counted as emergencies to whom.

While the washer ran, Marcus wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb in the hallway. Lena sorted the mail, paid the electric bill online, and called the pharmacy to refill her allergy prescription. At eleven, they carried the towels to the coin-operated dryers in the basement, then drove to the shopping center.

Their first stop was the pharmacy. Marcus waited in line with Lena, scrolling through coupons on the grocery store’s app. After she collected her prescription, they crossed the parking lot to the supermarket.

Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked the list. They compared prices on detergent, rejected strawberries that looked soft, and debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach.

“We will if we buy mushrooms,” Marcus said.

“You said that last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

They bought both, along with eggs, rice, chicken thighs, yogurt, coffee, and a frozen pizza for dinner. At checkout, Lena noticed they had forgotten trash bags. Marcus jogged back while she unloaded the cart onto the belt.

Back home, they carried the groceries up in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items as Lena divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they returned to the basement for the dry towels.

By three, the errands were finished. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Lena folded towels on the couch while Marcus made two mugs, regular for him and tea for her. They put on a movie, though both of them knew they would probably fall asleep before it ended.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of laundry and discovered they were nearly out of detergent. Mark stood in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We need groceries,” he said.

“We need a list,” Lena replied, opening the refrigerator.

They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturday was usually when they caught up on everything they had ignored during the workweek. Mark took out the recycling while Lena changed the sheets. Then they switched tasks: she carried the laundry downstairs to the shared dryers, and he wiped down the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror.

By eleven, they had made a grocery list on Lena’s phone. Mark added coffee, eggs, and pasta. Lena added vegetables, detergent, and cat litter, though their cat, Milo, seemed more interested in the paper bag by the door.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Lena picked out produce while Mark compared prices on chicken. They met near the dairy case, where he held up two cartons of eggs.

“These are cheaper,” he said.

“Those are twelve. The others are eighteen.”

He checked again and put the smaller carton back.

At the checkout, they realized they had forgotten coffee. Mark jogged to the next aisle while Lena unloaded the cart. The total was higher than they expected, so she removed a package of cookies, but Mark quietly put them back on the belt and said he would skip ordering lunch at work next week.

Back home, they carried the bags up two flights of stairs. Lena put away the cold food while Mark cleaned out the refrigerator, throwing away an old container of rice neither of them remembered making.

By midafternoon, the laundry was folded, the groceries were stored, and Milo’s litter box was clean. They sat on the couch with coffee and opened the cookies.

“We still need to vacuum,” Lena said.

Mark looked at the crumbs on his shirt. “After one more cookie.”

She nodded. That seemed reasonable.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already stripped the bed and started a load of laundry. Daniel stood at the kitchen counter, comparing the grocery list to the contents of the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Maya replied, carrying the laundry basket down the hall. “That’s not having eggs.”

They had lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus for almost three years. Saturdays were usually their catch-up days: cleaning, errands, and whatever small repairs they had ignored during the week.

While the washing machine ran, Daniel took the recycling to the bins behind the building. Maya wiped down the bathroom and discovered they were nearly out of toilet paper. She added it to the list, along with detergent, onions, coffee, and cat food for their orange tabby, Lewis.

At the grocery store, they split up. Daniel went to produce while Maya headed toward the pharmacy aisle. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel had selected a bag of apples and a bunch of cilantro.

“Cilantro?” Maya asked.

“For tacos.”

“Then we need tortillas.”

They compared prices, chose the store-brand paper products, and decided against strawberries after seeing the cost. At checkout, Maya unloaded the cart while Daniel packed the reusable bags, putting the bread and eggs on top.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Daniel put away the groceries and started chopping vegetables for lunch. Maya moved the laundry to the dryer, then changed the sheets. When she returned to the kitchen, Daniel handed her a piece of bell pepper.

“Needs salt,” she said after tasting it.

“It isn’t cooked yet.”

“It’ll still need salt.”

After lunch, they folded clothes together on the couch while a baseball game played quietly on television. Lewis climbed into the warm laundry and had to be removed twice.

By midafternoon, the refrigerator was full, the apartment smelled faintly of cleaner, and the errands were finished. Maya made coffee, and Daniel opened the windows. They sat for a while without planning the rest of the day.


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels, and Daniel was standing in the kitchen, holding two nearly empty cereal boxes.

“Do we need both of these?” he asked.

“We need neither of those,” Maya said, adding detergent to the shopping list on her phone. “You’re the only person who eats them, and you never finish them.”

Daniel combined the remaining cereal into one box and put it back in the cabinet. “Problem solved.”

They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, and Saturdays were usually reserved for whatever they had postponed during the week. While the towels washed, Daniel gathered recycling from the kitchen and bathroom. Maya wiped down the counters and checked the refrigerator for expired food. They debated whether a container of leftover rice was still good, then threw it away rather than risk it.

At eleven, they drove to the grocery store. Maya pushed the cart while Daniel read from the list. They compared prices on coffee, chose store-brand pasta, and spent several minutes looking for the specific cat litter their cat tolerated. In the produce section, Daniel picked out apples while Maya bagged green beans.

“You got avocados?” she asked.

“They’re hard as baseballs.”

“Get two. They’ll be ready by Wednesday.”

At the register, Daniel unloaded the cart and Maya watched the total climb higher than either expected. They split the bill through a payment app in the parking lot, then stopped at the pharmacy so Daniel could pick up a prescription.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Maya put away the refrigerated food while Daniel divided chicken into freezer bags. When the dryer buzzed, they folded the towels together on the couch, matching corners badly but efficiently.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of cleaner and coffee. Daniel took the recycling downstairs, and Maya made sandwiches. They ate at the small kitchen table, reviewing what remained: vacuuming, changing the sheets, and returning a package.

“Tomorrow?” Daniel suggested.

Maya looked around at the clean counters and stocked refrigerator.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter sorting the mail. They had lived together for two years, long enough to develop a loose system for weekends: one of them made a list, and the other remembered everything that never made it onto the list.

“We need detergent,” Marcus said, holding up the nearly empty bottle.

“And coffee,” Elena added from the hallway. “Real coffee, not the emergency instant stuff.”

While the washing machine ran, they stripped the bed and gathered recycling from around their apartment. Marcus carried the bags down to the bins behind the building. Elena wiped the bathroom sink and discovered they were almost out of toothpaste. She texted it to him before she forgot.

Around eleven, they drove to a supermarket across town, where produce was cheaper. Elena steered the cart while Marcus compared prices on pasta sauce. They debated whether they would actually cook the spinach before it wilted.

“We will,” Marcus said, putting a bag in the cart.

“You said that last time.”

“This is a new week.”

They bought eggs, rice, chicken thighs, apples, yogurt, detergent, toothpaste, and coffee. At the checkout, Elena noticed they had forgotten bread. Marcus jogged back while she unloaded the cart, returning with a loaf and a package of cookies that had not been discussed.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Elena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned fast-food receipts and an empty water bottle from the back seat.

Back at the apartment, they carried the groceries upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items, and Elena divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they moved the towels to the dryer and made the bed with clean sheets.

By early afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent and coffee. Elena sat at the table to review their shared budget. Marcus sliced apples and opened the cookies.

“We did buy spinach,” she reminded him.

“That’s for dinner,” he said, handing her a cookie.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing in the kitchen, shaking the last crumbs from a cereal box into his bowl.

“We need groceries,” he said.

“We needed groceries three days ago,” Lena replied, adding detergent to their shared list.

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually for catching up on everything they had ignored during the week.

While the washer ran, Marcus gathered recycling from the kitchen and bathroom. Lena changed the sheets and found two missing socks under the bed. They carried the recycling downstairs together, then drove to the bank, where Lena deposited a check from a freelance project. Afterward, Marcus stopped at the hardware store for lightbulbs and a replacement filter for the air conditioner.

At the grocery store, Lena pushed the cart while Marcus checked their list. They compared prices on coffee, debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled, and chose the smaller one. Marcus picked out chicken thighs for dinner. Lena added rice, yogurt, apples, and a box of cookies that was not on the list.

“You said we were sticking to essentials,” Marcus said.

“Cookies are essential to morale.”

At checkout, they divided the bags by weight so neither had to carry all the heavy items upstairs. Back home, Marcus put away the groceries while Lena moved the towels to the dryer. He cleaned old leftovers from the refrigerator, and she wiped the shelves before arranging the new food.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent, and clean sheets covered the bed. Marcus made coffee while Lena opened the cookies. They sat at the small kitchen table, tired but satisfied, discussing whether to cook dinner or order pizza.

After everything they had accomplished, they agreed that pizza was reasonable.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started the laundry, and Marcus was kneeling beside the kitchen sink with a flashlight between his teeth. The faucet had been dripping all week.

“You’re sure you turned off the water?” Elena called from the hallway.

Marcus removed the flashlight. “Almost sure.”

She appeared in the doorway holding a basket of towels. “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

Together they checked the valve, then watched a repair video on Elena’s phone. Marcus tightened the loose connection while Elena handed him tools and read the instructions. When he turned the water back on, the faucet stayed dry.

They celebrated with coffee, then made a grocery list at the kitchen table. Elena checked the refrigerator while Marcus opened cabinets and called out what they needed: eggs, rice, onions, coffee, dish soap. They disagreed briefly about whether they already had pasta, found three boxes, and crossed it off.

At the supermarket, Marcus pushed the cart while Elena compared prices. He chose tomatoes and spinach; she picked up chicken thighs and a bag of oranges. In the cereal aisle, Marcus reached for an expensive granola.

“That’s eight dollars,” Elena said.

“It has almonds.”

“We have almonds.”

He put it back and chose oatmeal. At checkout, Elena unloaded the cart while Marcus used the store app to find a coupon for the dish soap.

On the way home, they stopped at the post office so Elena could mail a birthday package to her sister. Marcus waited in the car and added gas-station coffee to their shared expense app.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Elena put away the produce while Marcus divided the chicken into freezer bags. Then they switched the laundry and took out the recycling.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. The repaired faucet was quiet, the refrigerator was full, and clean towels tumbled in the dryer. Marcus made sandwiches while Elena cleared a space on the couch. They ate with their feet on the coffee table, discussing whether they had enough energy to vacuum.

They decided they did not.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had already stripped the sheets from the bed and started a load of laundry. Marcus stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and studying the list they kept on the refrigerator.

“We need detergent,” he said.

“And groceries,” Lena called from the hallway. “Actual groceries, not just frozen pizza.”

Marcus added detergent to the list, then opened the refrigerator. A jar of mustard, two eggs, and half a carton of oat milk stared back at him. He wrote down eggs, milk, spinach, chicken, and coffee. Lena came in carrying the laundry basket and added bananas and toothpaste.

They divided the chores before leaving. Marcus vacuumed the living room while Lena cleaned the bathroom sink and replaced a burned-out bulb over the mirror. Then they switched: Lena folded the dry towels, and Marcus moved the sheets into the dryer.

Around eleven, they drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and they had to circle twice before finding a space near the cart return. Inside, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked items off the list on her phone. They compared prices on coffee, chose the store brand, and debated whether they would really cook the bag of dried lentils Marcus picked up.

“You said that last time,” Lena reminded him.

“This week is different,” he said, putting them in the cart anyway.

At the checkout, Lena noticed they had forgotten dish soap. Marcus jogged back for it while she unloaded the groceries onto the belt. They split the bill through their shared expenses app before leaving the store.

On the way home, they stopped at the pharmacy for toothpaste and dropped a box of old clothes at a donation center. Back at the apartment, Marcus carried the bags upstairs while Lena returned the cart someone had abandoned beside their parking space.

They put everything away together. By early afternoon, the clean sheets were back on the bed, the refrigerator was full, and the apartment smelled faintly of detergent. Lena heated leftover soup for lunch while Marcus washed the produce. Their Saturday was only half over, but the necessary part was done.


On Saturday morning, Maya woke to the sound of the washing machine thumping in the hallway closet. Ben had started a load of towels without noticing that one had wrapped itself around the others.

“It sounds like it’s trying to escape,” Maya said.

Ben paused the machine and redistributed the towels while Maya opened the blinds. They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to divide most chores without discussing them. Ben handled laundry; Maya usually made the grocery list. Neither of them was especially strict about it.

After coffee and scrambled eggs, they checked the refrigerator. Maya wrote down milk, spinach, tortillas, and yogurt while Ben inspected the pantry and added rice, coffee filters, and canned tomatoes. They debated whether they needed more hot sauce, then discovered two unopened bottles behind the cereal.

Before leaving, they carried recycling to the bins behind the building. Ben broke down a cardboard box while Maya gathered several cans that had rolled loose in the trunk of her car. Their next stop was the pharmacy, where Ben picked up allergy medicine and Maya bought toothpaste.

The grocery store was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Ben pushed the cart and compared prices on coffee. Maya chose apples, rejecting two with bruises, and found chicken thighs on sale. When Ben suggested frozen pizza, she reminded him they already had leftovers.

“That’s lunch,” he said. “Pizza is emergency planning.”

They bought one anyway.

Back home, Maya put away the refrigerated food while Ben carried up the second load of bags. He realized they had forgotten dish soap, but Maya found a nearly full bottle under the sink. They folded the clean towels together on the couch, matching corners badly and laughing when one came out shaped like a lopsided triangle.

By midafternoon, the errands were finished. Ben heated the leftovers, and Maya updated their shared shopping list on her phone. Outside, someone was mowing the apartment lawn. Inside, they ate lunch and discussed whether doing nothing for the rest of the day counted as a plan.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started the laundry, and Marcus was standing at the kitchen counter, comparing their grocery list with the nearly empty refrigerator.

“We need eggs,” he said.

“They’re already on the list,” Lena called from the hallway. She returned carrying a basket of towels. “And coffee. The good kind, not the giant plastic tub.”

Marcus added a question mark beside coffee and smiled.

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Saturdays were usually when they caught up on everything they had ignored during the workweek. While the washer ran, Marcus took the recycling down to the bins behind the building. Lena changed the sheets and gathered the library books they needed to return.

Before leaving, they stopped at the post office to mail a birthday card to Marcus’s mother. Then Lena drove to the library, where Marcus returned the books through the outside slot. Their final stop was the supermarket.

Inside, they divided the list. Lena picked out vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Marcus found cereal, pasta, and the coffee she liked. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get eggs?” Lena asked.

Marcus looked into the cart and sighed. “I talked about eggs for ten minutes.”

He went back for them while she chose yogurt. At the checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap, so Lena hurried to the cleaning aisle as Marcus unloaded the cart.

Back home, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries and portioned the chicken for the freezer. Lena moved the towels into the dryer, then wiped out the refrigerator drawer where a carton of strawberries had leaked.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. They made grilled cheese sandwiches and opened a can of tomato soup. The clean sheets were still piled on the couch, waiting to be folded.

“We should do those,” Marcus said.

Lena turned on the television. “After lunch.”

He handed her a bowl of soup. “Definitely after lunch.”

Neither of them moved the sheets.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had stripped the sheets from the bed and started the first load of laundry. Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, comparing their grocery list with the nearly empty refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he called.

“Two eggs,” Lena said, carrying the laundry basket down the hall. “And one of them looks suspicious.”

They divided the chores. While the washer ran, Marcus took the recycling to the bins behind their apartment building and vacuumed the living room. Lena cleaned the bathroom and gathered the mail that had accumulated beside the front door. They opened the utility bill together, frowned at the amount, and agreed to turn the thermostat down at night.

Around noon, they drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and Marcus waited for a family to unload their cart before pulling into a space. Inside, Lena steered while he checked items off the list on his phone.

They debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach before it went bad. Lena put it in the cart anyway. Marcus chose pasta, canned tomatoes, and ground turkey for dinner. They also bought coffee, oatmeal, apples, dish soap, and a box of cookies that had not been on the list.

At the register, Lena noticed a digital coupon had not applied. She asked the cashier about it while Marcus began bagging the groceries. The cashier fixed the price, saving them three dollars.

Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Marcus put away the pantry items while Lena washed the apples and cleared old leftovers from the refrigerator. Then they moved the laundry to the dryer and folded the first warm load on the couch.

By midafternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of detergent. Marcus made coffee, and Lena opened the cookies. They sat at the small kitchen table, tired but satisfied, discussing whether to take a walk before starting dinner.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a chair in the hallway, replacing the smoke detector battery that had chirped twice during the night.

“Test it before you get down,” Lena called from the laundry closet.

Marcus pressed the button. The alarm shrieked, and Lena covered her ears. “Working,” he said.

They had been living together for two years in a small apartment outside Columbus, Ohio. Their refrigerator held half a carton of eggs, mustard, and a container of rice neither of them remembered making. At the kitchen table, they wrote a grocery list. Lena checked the pantry while Marcus added items to the store app, comparing prices and deleting the cookies he had added when she wasn’t looking.

They left just before eleven. First, they stopped at the post office so Lena could mail a birthday package to her sister. Marcus waited in line while she found tape at a side counter. Then they drove to a hardware store for lightbulbs and a rubber washer for the dripping bathroom faucet.

At the supermarket, they divided the list. Lena picked out vegetables and searched for the yogurt they usually bought. Marcus went to the meat counter, then returned with chicken thighs and a discounted bag of coffee.

“This wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“It’s two dollars cheaper than ours.”

She examined the label and put it in the cart. “Fine. But no mystery cookies.”

They used the self-checkout, where Marcus scanned while Lena bagged, keeping the bread away from the cans. Back home, they carried everything upstairs in two trips. Lena put away the groceries, and Marcus replaced the faucet washer after watching a short video on his phone.

By midafternoon, the towels were folded, the leak had stopped, and a pot of soup simmered on the stove. They sat at the table with coffee, reviewing the week’s bills. Nothing about the day had been exciting, but the apartment felt cleaner, stocked, and ready for another week.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a chair in the hallway, replacing the smoke detector battery that had chirped twice during the night.

“Test it before you get down,” Elena called from the laundry closet.

Marcus pressed the button. The alarm shrieked, and Elena covered her ears.

“Works,” he said.

They made a list at the kitchen counter. Elena checked the refrigerator while Marcus opened cabinets and called out what they were missing: coffee, rice, dish soap, onions. She added yogurt and tomatoes, then reminded him they needed quarters for the apartment building’s larger dryer.

Their first stop was the bank, where Marcus used the change machine in the lobby. Afterward, Elena drove to the grocery store while he compared gas prices on his phone. The parking lot was crowded, so she dropped him near the entrance to get a cart, then found a space at the far end.

Inside, they divided the list. Elena picked produce and checked the strawberries for mold. Marcus found coffee and cereal, then texted her a picture of two brands of dish soap. She replied, “Whichever is cheaper per ounce.”

They met near the dairy case. Marcus had added tortilla chips to the cart. Elena raised an eyebrow but put in a jar of salsa.

At checkout, the total was higher than they expected. Together they reviewed the receipt and discovered the yogurt discount had not been applied. Marcus went to customer service while Elena loaded the bags into the car.

Back home, they carried everything up two flights. Marcus put away the groceries while Elena moved the towels to the dryer. Then they took out the recycling, wiped down the kitchen counters, and changed the sheets.

By midafternoon, they were tired and hungry. Elena sliced tomatoes for sandwiches while Marcus opened the chips.

“We forgot toothpaste,” he said.

Elena looked at the list on the counter.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and he agreed.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was standing on a kitchen chair, replacing the dead bulb above the sink. They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide chores without discussing every detail, but not long enough to stop disagreeing about how many reusable bags they owned.

“There are six in the trunk,” Marcus said.

“There are two in the trunk. The rest are probably under your desk.”

They found four under his desk, along with a missing phone charger and a library book due Monday. Lena added the library to their list while Marcus moved the towels to the dryer.

Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to her sister in Oregon. Marcus waited at the counter beside her, filling out a change-of-address form for a piece of mail that kept going to their old apartment. Afterward, they drove to the library and returned the overdue book through the slot.

At the grocery store, Marcus pushed the cart while Lena checked the list on her phone. They bought eggs, rice, coffee, spinach, chicken thighs, and the yogurt Lena liked. Marcus compared prices on laundry detergent and chose the store brand. Lena picked up tomatoes, rejected two, and found better ones near the back of the display.

“Do we need onions?” Marcus asked.

“We always need onions.”

They added onions, then debated whether frozen pizza counted as planning ahead. Two went into the cart.

Back home, Marcus carried the heavier bags upstairs while Lena brought the detergent and a sack of potatoes. They put everything away together. She washed the spinach; he divided the chicken into freezer bags and labeled them with the date.

By early afternoon, the towels were folded, the refrigerator was full, and the new bulb made the kitchen look brighter than either of them expected. Lena made coffee, and Marcus opened the mail. For a few quiet minutes, they sat at the table, satisfied that nothing urgent remained.


By nine on Saturday morning, Lena had started a load of towels, and Marcus was kneeling beside the kitchen sink, trying to tighten the loose faucet handle. They rented a small apartment in Ohio, and although the landlord would have sent someone eventually, Marcus insisted the repair would take five minutes.

It took twenty.

While he worked, Lena made a list on the back of an envelope: milk, rice, onions, coffee, dish soap. Marcus added cereal and crossed out the expensive brand Lena had written down.

“You don’t even eat cereal,” she said.

“I do when it’s not the kind with twigs in it.”

They carried the recycling to the bins behind the building, then drove to the supermarket. The parking lot was crowded, and Lena waited for a minivan to back out while Marcus checked the digital coupons on his phone.

Inside, they divided the list. Lena picked through tomatoes and compared prices on chicken thighs. Marcus found the coffee, dish soap, and a box of cereal with a cartoon tiger on it. When they met near the frozen foods, he had also added ice cream.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Lena said.

“Neither were the cookies in your basket.”

At the checkout, they bagged the groceries together. Marcus put the eggs and bread in one bag; Lena rearranged the cans so nothing was too heavy. The total was higher than they expected, so they agreed to cook at home instead of ordering pizza that evening.

Back at the apartment, Marcus carried most of the bags upstairs while Lena brought the laundry from the basement. They put everything away, wiped out the refrigerator, and threw away a jar of salsa neither remembered buying.

By early afternoon, the faucet no longer wobbled, the towels were folded, and a pot of rice was simmering on the stove. Lena chopped onions while Marcus seasoned the chicken. Their errands had taken longer than planned, but the apartment felt orderly again, and the rest of Saturday was still theirs.


By nine on Saturday morning, Elena had started a load of towels while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter sorting mail into three piles: bills, recycling, and things they had ignored all week.

“Internet bill went up again,” he said.

Elena poured the last of the coffee into two travel mugs. “Add ‘call provider’ to the list.”

Their list already included groceries, cat litter, lightbulbs, and returning a package. They lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and weekends often became a negotiation between chores and rest.

Marcus carried the laundry basket upstairs while Elena rinsed breakfast dishes and checked the refrigerator. The spinach had wilted, and one yogurt had expired. She added both to the grocery list, then called up the stairs to ask whether they still had rice.

“Enough for one meal,” Marcus answered after checking the pantry.

They left around eleven. At the shipping store, Elena returned a pair of shoes that pinched her toes while Marcus bought stamps. Next, they stopped at a hardware store, where he compared LED bulbs and she found a replacement filter for the furnace.

The supermarket was crowded with families and employees restocking shelves. Elena pushed the cart while Marcus read from the list on his phone. They debated whether they would actually cook broccoli before it went bad, then bought it anyway. Marcus chose ingredients for chili; Elena picked up sandwich bread, apples, eggs, and coffee. At the register, they split the total using their shared household account.

Back home, Marcus changed the furnace filter and started the chili. Elena folded the dry towels, put away groceries, and cleaned the refrigerator shelf where the spinach had leaked.

By midafternoon, the chores were mostly finished. They sat on the couch with bowls of chili, the cat wedged between them.

“We forgot the litter,” Elena said.

Marcus sighed and reached for his shoes. “I’ll go.”

“I’m coming,” she said. “We can get ice cream too.”


By nine on Saturday morning, Maya had already started a load of towels while Daniel stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the refrigerator’s contents.

“We still have eggs,” he said.

“Two eggs,” Maya replied, carrying the empty laundry basket down the hall. “That’s not having eggs.”

Daniel added them to the list. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know that errands went faster when they divided the decisions. Maya checked the bathroom cabinet for toothpaste and detergent. Daniel gathered the recycling and took it to the bins behind their apartment building.

Before leaving, they stopped at the post office to mail a birthday gift to Daniel’s sister in Ohio. Maya waited in line while Daniel filled out the address label, then she caught his mistake before they reached the counter.

“She lives on Walnut Street now.”

“Good thing one of us pays attention,” he said, crossing out the old address.

At the supermarket, they pushed the cart together until the aisles grew crowded. Then Daniel handled produce and meat while Maya collected cereal, canned tomatoes, and cleaning supplies. They met near the dairy case.

“Did you get coffee?” she asked.

He looked at the cart. “I thought you were getting coffee.”

They doubled back, laughing because this happened almost every week.

At checkout, Maya noticed the total climbing and quietly removed a bag of fancy granola. Daniel replaced it with the store brand. They loaded the groceries into their hatchback, returned the cart, and drove home with the windows cracked open to the mild afternoon.

Back at the apartment, Daniel put away the cold items while Maya moved the towels to the dryer. They ate sandwiches standing at the counter, then worked side by side: he vacuumed the living room, and she wiped down the bathroom.

By three, the errands were finished. Maya folded the warm towels while Daniel made coffee. They sat on the couch, tired but satisfied, and agreed not to do anything useful for the rest of the day.