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

“Not burned,” Marcus said, lifting the loaf from the rack. “Deeply toasted.”

Elena opened the window above the sink and waved a dish towel at the smoke detector. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Minneapolis.

While Elena chopped parsley for the pasta, Marcus cleared mail from the table and carried two half-unpacked boxes into the bedroom. He returned with mismatched candles and set them in old jam jars.

“Romantic,” Elena said.

“Affordable,” he replied.

At six-fifteen, she tasted the sauce and frowned. Marcus added salt, then tasted it from the same spoon.

“Better,” he said.

“You always say that after adding salt.”

Their first guests, Priya and Dan, arrived with a bottle of wine and a bag of ice. Ten minutes later, Tasha and Will came carrying grocery-store flowers. Marcus found a pitcher for the flowers while Elena took coats and tried to keep everyone from noticing the laundry drying behind the bedroom door.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. They passed bowls over elbows, and Dan dropped a piece of bread into his water glass. The pasta had cooled slightly, but no one seemed to mind. Marcus told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat, and Elena corrected his exaggerations until the table was laughing.

After dessert—vanilla ice cream with warm berries—the guests helped stack plates by the sink. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again.

Marcus filled the basin with soapy water while Elena wrapped the leftover bread.

“That went well,” he said.

“We need more forks.”

“We need fewer friends.”

She bumped him with her hip and began drying the plates he handed her. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, candle wax hardened in the jam jars, and the apartment, though still small and cluttered, felt more like theirs.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Nina stood at the counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked done.

“It’s browned,” he said.

“Brown isn’t a temperature.”

Marcus sighed, found the meat thermometer, and checked. “One fifty-eight.”

“Back in.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Ohio. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of those chairs had come from the balcony and still needed wiping.

While Nina finished the salad, Marcus cleared a stack of mail from the table and carried it to their bedroom. He returned with mismatched cloth napkins they had received from his mother.

At six fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Nina looked at the clock.

“They’re early.”

“Only Rachel is early,” Marcus said, pressing the intercom button.

Rachel arrived carrying sparkling water and a bakery box. Soon after, Devon, Luis, and Priya crowded into the entryway, taking off damp coats and asking where to put their shoes.

Marcus poured drinks while Nina transferred the chicken to a platter. When the smoke alarm chirped from the heat, he waved a dish towel beneath it, and everyone laughed.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. Devon told a story about locking himself out of his car. Priya asked for the salad recipe, though Nina admitted the dressing came from a bottle. Marcus cut the last piece of bread in half so Rachel and Luis could share it.

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

Nina filled the sink with soapy water. Marcus wrapped the leftover chicken and stacked containers in the refrigerator.

“That went well,” he said.

“We need more forks.”

“We need a bigger table.”

Nina handed him a wet plate to dry. “Forks are cheaper.”

Marcus nodded, and they worked side by side until the counters were clear.


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

“Three-seventy-five is probably there,” he said, pointing to a scratch near the middle.

“That’s reassuring.”

They had lived in the apartment for eleven months, long enough to know which floorboard creaked and which window leaked, but not long enough to persuade the landlord to replace the stove. Tonight, four friends were coming for dinner, their first time hosting since moving in together.

Daniel slid a pan of chicken and potatoes into the oven. Maya tasted the salad dressing, added lemon, and handed him the spoon. He nodded, then made a face.

“Too much mustard?”

“Just enough to wake people up.”

By six-thirty, the living room looked almost intentional. Daniel stacked mail inside a desk drawer while Maya moved a dying houseplant from the coffee table to the bedroom. They disagreed briefly about music, settled on an old soul playlist, and lit two candles that smelled faintly of cedar.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, bread, and a supermarket pie. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wrong kitchen cabinet three times looking for glasses. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya rescued the potatoes, laughing so hard she had to set the pan down.

Dinner was served twenty minutes late. The chicken was a little dry, but the salad disappeared quickly, and everyone praised the potatoes. Around the table, they talked about rent increases, a coworker’s strange promotion, and whether anyone still watched local news.

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

Maya filled the basin with soapy water. Daniel wrapped the leftover pie.

“That went well,” he said.

“You nearly set off the building alarm.”

“But I didn’t.”

She bumped his hip with hers, and he picked up a dish towel. Together, they cleaned the kitchen while the last song played.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and warm bread. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to read the faded numbers on the temperature dial.

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

“Three-fifty. Unless you want to serve charcoal.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they’d hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore. Their dining table, bought secondhand, could seat six if nobody minded touching elbows.

Daniel slid the lasagna into the oven. Maya cleared mail from the table and carried it to the bedroom, where she hid it in a laundry basket. When she returned, Daniel was arranging mismatched plates.

“The blue one has a crack,” she said.

“It’s decorative.”

“It leaks.”

He replaced it.

At six twenty, the salad was dressed, the bread was wrapped in foil, and Maya had changed her shirt twice. Daniel opened a bottle of wine, then realized they had no corkscrew. He knocked on the neighbor’s door and returned holding one shaped like a parrot.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing grocery-store flowers, sparkling water, and a chocolate cake. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker on the windowsill.

During dinner, the table wobbled whenever anyone reached for the bread. Daniel folded a napkin and pushed it under one leg while Maya served squares of lasagna. The edges were darker than planned, but everyone asked for seconds.

Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to whether people actually used their air fryers. Maya noticed Daniel quietly refill water glasses. He noticed her relax enough to leave the dirty serving spoon on the counter.

After the guests left, the apartment seemed suddenly larger. Maya washed plates while Daniel dried them.

“That went well,” he said.

“The blue plate survived.”

“Decorative crack.”

She bumped him with her hip. Near midnight, they ate the last two bites of cake over the sink, too tired to find clean forks.


At four on Saturday, Lena stood in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Marcus, reading the recipe on her phone for the third time. The chicken was supposed to marinate overnight. She had given it forty minutes.

“It’ll be fine,” Marcus said, squeezing past her with a folding chair tucked under one arm. “Nobody coming tonight has ever refused free food.”

“They’re bringing wine. That makes it a transaction.”

He laughed and carried the chair into the living room. Their dining table seated four, and they had invited six people, so Marcus had borrowed two chairs from the downstairs neighbor. Neither matched. One was metal, the other had a faded floral cushion.

While Lena chopped parsley and garlic, Marcus cleared mail, charging cables, and a half-finished puzzle from the table. He found the good napkins in a kitchen drawer and ironed them on the counter beneath a dish towel. Lena noticed but said nothing; he liked finding small ways to make things look intentional.

At six, the smoke detector went off while she seared the chicken. Marcus opened the balcony door and waved a baking sheet beneath the alarm. Their cat, Noodle, fled under the bed.

The first guests arrived ten minutes early. Priya brought a bottle of red and a grocery-store bouquet. Lena put the flowers in a water pitcher because they didn’t own a vase. Marcus took coats and introduced Priya to Daniel, who had come with olives and an apology for forgetting dessert.

By seven, everyone was crowded around the table. The chicken was slightly dry, but the roasted potatoes were crisp, and Marcus’s salad—made after he decided the meal needed “something green”—disappeared quickly.

Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to an argument about the best highway route to the coast. Lena refilled glasses. Marcus passed the potatoes and kept Noodle from climbing onto Daniel’s lap.

After the last guests left, the apartment smelled of garlic and wine. Lena stacked plates while Marcus wrapped leftovers.

“Successful transaction?” he asked.

She looked at the mismatched chairs, the empty serving dish, and the flowers leaning out of the pitcher.

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

Marcus handed her a dish towel. “I’ll still iron the napkins.”


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions, lemon, and the cinnamon candle Maya had lit to cover the faint odor of their neighbor’s cigarette smoke. She stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel carried a folding chair up from the basement.

“It still wobbles,” he said, testing it on the tile.

“Put it by the wall. Give it to Kevin.”

“Because we don’t like Kevin?”

“Because Kevin weighs a hundred and thirty pounds.”

They were expecting four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving in together last spring. Their dining table officially seated four, so Daniel extended it with a card table, then covered the uneven surfaces with two overlapping tablecloths. Maya stepped back to inspect his work.

“It looks like a low-budget wedding.”

“Romantic,” he said.

They had divided the menu: Maya made roast chicken and salad; Daniel handled potatoes and dessert. At six fifteen, he discovered he had forgotten vanilla extract. After a brief debate, he walked to the corner market while Maya swept parsley stems into the trash and checked the chicken again.

Their friends arrived nearly at once, bringing wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread no one had requested but everyone ate. Coats piled on the bed. Kevin got the folding chair and did not complain.

During dinner, the potatoes were slightly undercooked, and the smoke alarm chirped when Daniel opened the oven. Maya waved a dish towel beneath it while everyone laughed and Daniel rescued the apple crisp.

Later, conversation drifted from rent increases to a friend’s new job in Denver. Daniel refilled glasses. Maya brought out the crisp, which was darker around the edges but good with ice cream.

After the last guests left, the apartment seemed abruptly quiet. Maya gathered plates while Daniel folded the questionable chair.

“That went well,” he said.

“No one got food poisoning.”

“And Kevin survived.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, bumping elbows at the sink. Near midnight, they ate the remaining apple crisp straight from the pan, standing barefoot in the kitchen amid the pleasant disorder they had made.


By six o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the vanilla candle Maya had lit to cover the faint odor of roasted broccoli. She stood at the stove, whisking a pan sauce, while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of their mismatched chairs.

“Is that actually helping?” Maya asked.

“It’s helping me feel useful.”

“You could set out the glasses.”

Daniel gave the chair one last turn with the screwdriver. “Then someone will sit here and survive.”

They had invited four friends, which was the maximum their small Ohio apartment could hold without borrowing furniture from the neighbors. Daniel unfolded two TV trays and covered them with dish towels. Maya adjusted the salad, adding more walnuts after deciding it looked sparse.

At six-thirty, the chicken was resting, the rice was warm, and Daniel had changed his shirt twice. Maya was still wearing her cooking apron when the buzzer sounded.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened a window after the smoke detector chirped when Maya reheated the broccoli.

Dinner began awkwardly, with everyone balancing serving bowls and apologizing for bumping elbows. Then Priya told a story about accidentally joining the wrong video meeting at work, and the table relaxed into laughter. Daniel kept water glasses filled and carved the chicken when Maya admitted she hated doing it. Maya remembered that Luis didn’t eat dairy and quietly moved the buttered rolls away from his plate, replacing them with extra rice.

After dessert, they played cards at the coffee table. Daniel argued cheerfully about the rules, while Maya collected plates and listened from the kitchen. He joined her a few minutes later, carrying a tower of glasses.

When the last guests left, it was nearly midnight. The apartment looked smaller than before, crowded with crumbs, bottles, and damp dish towels.

“That went well,” Daniel said, turning on the faucet.

Maya handed him a plate to wash. “The chair held.”

“So did we.”

She smiled, leaned against his shoulder for a moment, and then reached for the next dish.


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

“It’s sticking again,” he said, crouching beneath the table.

“You have to lift the left side first.”

“I am lifting the left side.”

“That’s the right side.”

Daniel looked up, sighed, and switched hands. The leaf slid into place.

They had invited four friends for dinner, which was about the maximum their one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore could hold without someone eating on the windowsill. Maya had planned baked ziti, salad, and garlic bread. Daniel was responsible for drinks and dessert. He had bought two bottles of wine, sparkling water, and a chocolate cake from the grocery store, carefully transferring the cake to their own plate so it looked homemade.

At six fifteen, Maya realized they were out of Parmesan. Daniel put on his sneakers and jogged to the corner market. While he was gone, she set the table with mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into rough triangles.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing beer, flowers, and an unexpected container of homemade pickles. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel opened wine while Maya pulled the bubbling ziti from the oven.

During dinner, everyone talked over one another—about a new supervisor, rising rent, a neighbor’s noisy dog. Daniel noticed Maya had barely sat down and took over refilling glasses and passing seconds. Later, she cut the cake while he cleared plates.

One friend spilled wine near the rug, but Daniel caught most of it with a napkin. Maya brought salt, and three people offered conflicting cleaning advice.

By eleven, the guests had left. The apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

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

Daniel examined the stained napkin in his hand. “The rug survived.”

They ate two leftover forkfuls of cake over the sink, then began wrapping the ziti for tomorrow’s lunch.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

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

They had invited four friends, which was two more people than their small dining table could comfortably hold. Daniel carried in a folding chair from the bedroom and wiped dust from its seat. Maya set mismatched plates around the table, then shifted everything when she realized the serving bowl would not fit.

They worked without much discussion. Daniel rinsed rice and measured water with a coffee mug because the measuring cup was missing. Maya dressed the salad, tasted it, and added salt. When the smoke alarm chirped, Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the window.

At six-forty, their first guest texted that she was running late. This was a relief. The chicken was still pale, and Maya had forgotten to buy ice. Daniel put on his shoes and jogged to the corner store. He returned carrying two bags, having also bought sparkling water and a bunch of tulips.

“For the table,” he said.

“There’s no room on the table.”

They put the flowers on the windowsill.

By seven-fifteen, everyone had arrived. Coats piled on the bed, and the apartment filled with overlapping conversations. Daniel carved the chicken in the kitchen while Maya passed around drinks. One friend brought bread; another arrived with a chocolate cake tilted inside its box.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Knees bumped under the table. The rice stuck slightly to the pot, and the chicken was a little dry, but no one complained. They talked about rent increases, a new job, and a neighbor’s noisy dog.

After their friends left, Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. They stood side by side at the sink, tired and quiet.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the leaning stack of dishes. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

He handed her a towel, and they began.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, squinting at the thermometer.

“It says three-fifty,” he said.

“The dial says four hundred.”

“That explains why the potatoes look nervous.”

Maya laughed and slid the parsley into a bowl. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Minneapolis. Their dining table, bought secondhand, seated four comfortably and six with negotiation.

Daniel lowered the heat and turned the potatoes. Maya tasted the salad dressing, added salt, then handed him a spoon. He nodded seriously before adding a little more mustard.

At six, they cleared mail from the kitchen counter and carried two folding chairs up from the storage locker. Daniel set the table with mismatched plates while Maya lit a candle and immediately blew it out because the scent competed with dinner.

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, sparkling water, and a loaf of bread nobody had requested but everyone welcomed. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya finished the chicken in a skillet, asking Nora about her new job over the hiss of butter.

Dinner was crowded and slightly late. One potato rolled off the serving dish, and Daniel caught it against his shirt. Everyone applauded. Maya noticed the chicken was a little dry, but their friends asked for seconds and used the bread to wipe sauce from their plates.

Afterward, Daniel made coffee while Maya divided the last piece of apple tart into six narrow slices. They stayed at the table talking about rent increases, weekend plans, and a neighbor’s missing cat.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel washed dishes; Maya dried and stacked them.

“That went well,” he said.

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

“Definitely,” she said. “Next time, paper plates.”

He handed her another dish. “Next time?”

She smiled. “Maybe in spring.”


At five-thirty, Nina stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Marcus dragged the vacuum cleaner around the living room. They had lived together in their Ohio apartment for two years, long enough to know which tasks each disliked. Nina hated vacuuming; Marcus found chopping herbs unbearably tedious.

“Under the couch,” Nina called.

“I’m getting there.”

“You said that last time.”

Marcus knelt and discovered two bottle caps, a missing sock, and a receipt from January. He held up the sock like evidence. “This is yours.”

Nina glanced over. “Definitely yours.”

Their four friends were due at seven. Nina had promised roast chicken and potatoes, while Marcus had volunteered to make salad and buy wine. At six-fifteen, he realized the salad greens were still in the trunk of his car. Nina laughed so hard she had to put down the wooden spoon.

By six-forty, the apartment smelled of garlic and rosemary. Marcus set the table with their mismatched plates, then folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Nina changed her shirt after splattering it with pan sauce. They bumped into each other twice in the narrow hallway.

The doorbell rang at seven-oh-five. Their friends arrived carrying a bakery pie, sparkling water, and a houseplant in a blue ceramic pot. Marcus took coats while Nina poured drinks. For a while, everyone crowded in the kitchen, talking over the hiss of the oven.

The chicken needed another fifteen minutes, so Marcus brought out olives and crackers. No one seemed bothered. When they finally sat down, Nina carved the chicken while Marcus passed the potatoes. Conversation moved from work complaints to a neighbor’s noisy dog, then to summer travel plans nobody had booked.

After dessert, one friend washed dishes despite Nina’s protests. Marcus packed leftovers into old takeout containers. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Nina watered the new plant at the sink. Marcus gathered wineglasses from the coffee table.

“That went well,” he said.

“It did,” she agreed, looking at the crowded drying rack. “Next time, we order pizza.”

Marcus nodded. “And still vacuum?”

“Especially vacuum.”


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, watching a pan of chicken thighs through the streaked glass.

“They’re not browning,” he said.

“Give them time,” Maya replied. “And stop opening the door.”

Daniel stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of those chairs had come from the balcony and still had dust in their metal joints.

While Maya mixed dressing for the salad, Daniel cleared mail from the table and carried an armful of shoes into the bedroom. They moved around each other in the narrow space with practiced adjustments: a hand at the waist, a quick step aside, a warning about the open dishwasher.

At six-fifteen, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya transferred the chicken to a serving dish and quietly scraped the darkest pieces of onion from the pan.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Someone knocked a fork onto the floor. Daniel told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at midnight, and Maya corrected his imitation of the neighbor’s dog. The chicken was slightly dry, but everyone took seconds of the potatoes.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Daniel divided the cookies onto small plates because they did not own a serving platter. Their friends stayed until nearly eleven, talking about rent increases, work schedules, and a summer trip nobody had planned yet.

When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger. Daniel gathered glasses. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded sink and smiled. “You can say that because you’re washing dishes.”

He turned on the faucet. “I was always washing dishes.”

Maya handed him the sponge, then dried while he washed. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner, and inside, they restored the apartment one plate at a time.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter, chopping parsley for the roast chicken, while Daniel carried mismatched chairs from the bedroom.

“Six people, six seats,” he announced, setting down the folding chair they kept behind the winter coats.

“Seven,” Maya said. “Priya texted. She’s bringing Sam.”

Daniel looked at the table, then toward the desk. “Desk chair?”

“If you wipe the dust off.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough to own a good roasting pan but not a full set of wineglasses. Maya arranged water glasses beside two wineglasses, three tumblers, and a jam jar. Daniel found a clean dish towel and polished the silverware, then opened the oven to check the chicken.

“Don’t keep opening it,” Maya said.

“I’m monitoring.”

“You’re lowering the temperature.”

At six-thirty, the smoke alarm chirped. Daniel waved a cutting board beneath it while Maya opened the balcony door, laughing despite herself. The chicken was fine; butter from the potatoes had spilled onto the oven floor.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Priya’s boyfriend, Sam, took the desk chair without complaint. Daniel poured drinks while Maya finished the salad, and everyone crowded into the kitchen, offering help where none was possible.

Dinner began twenty minutes late. The chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes disappeared quickly. They talked about rent increases, a coworker’s strange resignation, and whether anyone still watched broadcast television. Daniel told a story Maya had heard twice before, but she added the detail he always forgot.

After dessert, their friends lingered over coffee until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, Maya leaned against it.

“That went well,” Daniel said, surveying the plates.

“You’re washing.”

“I cooked.”

“You monitored.”

He smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and turned on the faucet. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken while he washed, and together they listened to the apartment settle back into quiet.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions, lemon, and the rosemary Daniel had chopped too finely. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of white beans while checking the chicken in the oven every few minutes.

“It won’t cook faster if you stare at it,” Maya said. She was kneeling beside the coffee table, sliding old magazines onto the bottom shelf.

“I’m making sure it doesn’t burn.”

“You’re letting the heat out.”

Daniel shut the oven door. “Fine. I’ll worry quietly.”

They had invited four friends, which was the most their small Ohio apartment could hold without borrowing chairs. Maya unfolded two metal ones from the hall closet and wiped dust from the seats. Daniel set out mismatched plates: three white, two blue, and one with a faded green border.

At six-fifteen, Maya changed her shirt after splashing salad dressing on it. Daniel tasted the beans and added salt. They passed each other in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, moving bowls, and asking questions neither waited to hear answered.

“Where’s the corkscrew?”

“Did you buy ice?”

“It’s in the freezer.”

“The corkscrew?”

“The ice.”

The buzzer sounded at six-thirty-eight. Their friends arrived carrying wine, a loaf of bread, and a grocery-store bouquet wrapped in plastic. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the window when the smoke alarm chirped as Daniel pulled out the chicken.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Maya kept water glasses filled and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat. Daniel carved the chicken at the counter, then sat down only after everyone else had food. The beans were slightly too salty, but their friend Leah asked for the recipe.

By ten, the guests had gone. The apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

“I’ll wash,” Daniel said.

“I’ll dry,” Maya replied.

They worked without hurrying. Outside, tires hissed on wet pavement. Maya stacked the clean plates, and Daniel wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded dish rack. “Next time, we order pizza.”

He nodded. “And still make the beans?”

“Less salt.”

“Deal.”


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to see whether the chicken was browning without opening the door again.

“It needs another twenty minutes,” Maya said.

“You can tell that from over there?”

“I can tell because you’ve checked it four times.”

Daniel stood and wiped his hands on a dish towel. They had invited four friends, which was not many, but their apartment made six people feel like a crowd. He carried a stack of mail into the bedroom and returned with two folding chairs from the hall closet.

Maya stirred the pot of rice and tasted it. “Too salty.”

Daniel took the spoon she offered. “A little. Add more water?”

She nodded, and he filled the kettle. They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen, shifting sideways without speaking. After three years of living together, they knew who would reach for which drawer.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks while Maya transferred the chicken to a platter and scattered parsley over it.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. Someone knocked a fork onto the floor. The folding chair squeaked whenever Luis leaned back, so he finally stopped trying. Maya worried about the rice until Priya asked for seconds.

Halfway through the meal, Daniel realized they had forgotten the salad in the refrigerator. He brought it out, and everyone laughed as though the salad had made a late entrance on purpose.

After dessert, their friends helped carry plates to the sink, despite Maya’s protests. By ten-thirty, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel found a wineglass on the windowsill and a napkin under the table.

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

Daniel looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She handed him a dish towel. He turned on the water, and together they began cleaning up.


By five on Saturday, the apartment smelled like roasted garlic and furniture polish. Nina stood at the kitchen counter slicing mushrooms while Eric carried a stack of books from the coffee table to the bedroom.

“Not under the bed,” she called.

“I’m putting them on the desk.”

“The desk is worse.”

Eric reappeared, still holding the books. “Then they’re part of the décor.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving in together eight months earlier. The apartment, a second-floor rental in Columbus, was comfortable but narrow, and the dining table had come from a thrift store with only three matching chairs.

Eric borrowed two folding chairs from their downstairs neighbor. Nina covered the table with a blue cotton cloth and arranged mismatched glasses beside each plate. When she opened the oven, the chicken was browning faster than expected.

“Can you lower this rack?” she asked.

Eric pulled on the oven mitts. “I thought I was décor.”

“You’ve been promoted.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed despite Nina’s earlier objections to using the room for storage. In the kitchen, Eric mashed potatoes while talking to Marcus about a recent job interview. Nina stirred the pan sauce and asked Leah to taste it.

“More salt,” Leah said.

“Everyone always says more salt,” Nina replied, adding some anyway.

At the table, one folding chair wobbled. Eric folded a paper napkin and tucked it beneath a leg. The chicken was slightly dry, but the sauce helped, and nobody seemed to mind. Conversation moved from rent increases to a disastrous camping trip, then to whether anyone actually enjoyed running.

After dessert, their friends helped carry dishes to the kitchen but left before the washing began. Nina filled the sink while Eric wrapped leftovers.

“That went well,” he said.

“The smoke alarm never went off.”

“A clear success.”

They worked side by side, passing plates between them. When the last glass was drying on a towel, Eric turned on the small speaker by the window. Nina leaned against him for a moment, both of them tired, looking at the crowded, untidy room they had made ready together.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the dining table and moved two unopened packages into the bedroom. Mark stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the pasta sauce.

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

Mark looked down. “They’ll cook down.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

He sighed, but gathered the onion pieces and chopped them again.

They had invited four friends for seven. It was their first dinner since moving into the apartment in Columbus, and they were still missing practical things. They owned only five matching forks, so Elena set one odd fork at Mark’s place. He noticed but didn’t object.

While the sauce simmered, Mark vacuumed the living room. Elena made a salad and discovered the cucumbers were soft. She cut away the worst parts, then changed her mind and walked to the corner market for new ones. On the way back, she texted Mark to put the bread in the oven.

At six-fifty, the bread was still on the counter.

“I forgot,” he said, already turning on the oven.

Elena stared at him, then laughed. “Fine. We’ll call it a second course.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box. Coats were piled on the bed. Someone asked for a bottle opener, and Mark searched three drawers before Elena found it beside the coffee maker.

Dinner was crowded but comfortable. The sauce was slightly salty, the bread arrived halfway through the meal, and one chair wobbled until Mark folded a coaster under its leg. Elena kept water glasses filled while Mark passed bowls and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at two in the morning.

After dessert, everyone lingered over coffee. When the door finally closed behind the last guest, the apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

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

Mark held up the odd fork. “Nobody noticed.”

“I noticed.”

He kissed her forehead and turned on the faucet. She picked up a towel, and together they washed the remaining dishes.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched in front of the oven, trying to decide whether the chicken looked done.

“It’s been an hour,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Use the thermometer.”

Daniel found it in the utensil drawer beneath three spatulas and a pair of tongs. Their apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the vanilla candle Maya had lit to cover the earlier scent of burnt butter.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small dining table could hold if they added two folding chairs. Maya set out mismatched plates while Daniel cleared mail and a bicycle pump from the living room. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know which tasks the other would forget. Maya filled the water pitcher. Daniel remembered ice.

At seven, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a loaf of bread from the bakery down the block. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full.

Daniel carved the chicken while Maya tossed the salad. When he dropped a slice onto the floor, they both stared at it.

“Five-second rule?” he asked.

“Trash,” she said, laughing.

At the table, everyone passed bowls carefully to avoid knocking over glasses. Conversation moved from a neighbor’s barking dog to health insurance, then to a friend’s new job in Denver. Maya noticed Daniel quietly give the crispiest potato to her. She refilled his wine.

Dessert was store-bought pie warmed in the oven. Nobody complained. By ten, the guests had left, taking the extra bread but forgetting the flowers.

The apartment was suddenly quiet. Daniel washed dishes while Maya dried them, their shoulders bumping at the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“We only lost one piece of chicken.”

“And one wineglass.”

Maya looked toward the table, where a cracked stem lay beside the candle.

“Next time,” she said, “paper cups.”

They finished cleaning, turned off the kitchen light, and left the last two plates in the rack to dry.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the faintly scorched dish towel Daniel had left too close to the stove.

“It’s fine,” he said, holding up the towel.

Maya opened the kitchen window. “It’s smoking.”

“Barely.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the second-floor apartment in Ohio. The folding table they used as a desk had been cleared of laptops and mail. Maya covered it with a blue tablecloth while Daniel unfolded two borrowed chairs.

Maya chopped parsley for the salad and checked the chicken in the oven. Daniel stirred rice, then crouched to wipe a streak of sauce from the cabinet. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, trading spoons and opening drawers with their hips.

At six fifteen, Maya changed her shirt after splashing olive oil on it. Daniel set out mismatched glasses and counted the forks twice.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because there was no hall closet. For the first hour, everyone stood in the kitchen, though Maya kept suggesting the living room. Daniel poured drinks and told the story of the smoking towel, exaggerating until he had nearly started a fire.

Dinner was imperfect. The rice stuck to the pot, and one piece of chicken was undercooked, so Daniel quietly returned it to the oven. Maya passed around extra salad while they waited. Nobody seemed to mind. Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to which grocery store had the worst parking lot.

After dessert, one guest washed plates despite Maya’s protests. Daniel packed leftovers into old takeout containers. By eleven, the apartment was quiet again.

Maya leaned against the counter, looking at the crumbs and empty bottles. “That went well.”

Daniel lifted the burned towel from where he had hidden it behind the toaster.

“We’ll need a new one,” he said.

She laughed, and together they began cleaning.


By six o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and the lemon candle Maya had lit to cover the earlier smell of burned bread. She stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel knelt beside the dining table, tightening a loose leg with a screwdriver.

“Does it still wobble?” he asked.

Maya pressed one hand against the table. “Only if someone leans on it. So don’t invite anyone emotional.”

They were expecting four friends, the largest group they could fit comfortably in their two-bedroom apartment outside Baltimore. Daniel had borrowed folding chairs from a neighbor. Maya had made baked ziti, salad, and a pan of brownies. Daniel was responsible for drinks and bread, though one loaf had already been sacrificed to the broiler.

At six thirty, the doorbell rang. Their friends arrived carrying wine, flowers, and a bag of ice nobody had requested but everyone appreciated. Daniel took coats and stacked them on the bed. Maya found a jar for the flowers, then remembered it held wooden spoons and transferred them to a mixing bowl.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. One friend described a difficult manager; another announced she had finally scheduled her driving test. Daniel refilled water glasses and brought out the replacement loaf. Maya served the ziti, scraping the crisp corners for herself.

Halfway through the meal, the table gave a small, alarming tilt. Daniel caught the salad bowl before it slid.

“I thought you fixed that,” Maya said.

“I improved it,” he replied, folding a napkin under the short leg.

Afterward, their friends helped clear plates. Someone put on music from a phone. They ate brownies in the living room, balancing dessert plates on their knees, while rain tapped against the windows.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Daniel washed dishes while Maya packed leftovers into mismatched containers. They were tired, and the floor was dotted with crumbs.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink, the empty wine bottles, and the flowers leaning from their borrowed jar.

“It did,” she agreed, handing him another plate.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the time on the microwave. Across the kitchen, Daniel cut romaine lettuce into uneven strips.

“Those pieces are enormous,” Maya said.

“They’ll shrink when people chew them,” he replied.

She laughed and handed him a larger bowl. They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small apartment could hold without borrowing chairs from the neighbors. Daniel had already moved the coffee table against the wall and unfolded a card table beside their two-person dining table. The mismatched setup bothered Maya, but Daniel covered both tables with the same blue tablecloth, which made it look almost intentional.

At six, Maya tasted the sauce and frowned. Daniel tasted it too, added salt, then wiped a red spot from the counter. Together they assembled the lasagna: sauce, noodles, ricotta, mozzarella, repeat. While it baked, Maya changed her shirt, and Daniel took out the recycling and returned with a folding chair borrowed from the couple downstairs.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled up on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the tables while Daniel poured drinks and Maya brought out the salad.

The lasagna was still cold in the middle.

For a moment, Maya stared at it in silence. Then Daniel lifted the pan and put it back in the oven.

“Twenty more minutes,” he announced. “Emergency bread course.”

They passed around garlic bread and olives while their friends told a story about getting lost on the way over. By the time the lasagna was ready, no one seemed to mind the delay.

Later, after the last guests left, Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. The apartment was warm and cluttered, with crumbs under the table and half a bottle of wine left.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the leaning stack of dishes. “Ask me after cleanup.”

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


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of onions, rosemary, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, while Daniel crouched in the living room, trying to slide an extension cord behind the bookcase.

“Why do we own three lamps and no working bulbs?” he called.

“Because you keep buying vintage lamps.”

“They have character.”

“They have electrical problems.”

They had lived together for two years in a second-floor apartment in Columbus, Ohio. Tonight, four friends were coming for dinner, which was the largest gathering they had hosted since moving in.

Daniel set the table with mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Maya tasted the sauce, added salt, then handed him a bag of salad greens.

“Can you wash these?”

He did, though half the leaves ended up in the sink. When the buzzer sounded, Maya was still changing her shirt, and Daniel had just discovered they were out of ice.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened a window when the kitchen grew too warm.

Dinner was baked pasta, salad, and garlic bread that Daniel nearly burned because he was explaining a story and forgot the timer. Maya scraped off the darkest edges, and everyone ate it anyway. Conversation moved from a coworker’s promotion to rising rent, then to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer.

After dessert, they lingered around the table. Daniel made coffee while Maya divided the remaining cake into small pieces. By eleven, the guests had left, taking their coats and promising to host next time.

The apartment was suddenly quiet. Maya stacked plates beside the sink. Daniel collected glasses from the windowsill and coffee table.

“That went well,” he said.

“You almost set the bread on fire.”

“But I didn’t.”

She smiled and handed him a dish towel. They washed and dried in companionable silence, leaving the last pan to soak until morning.


By five-thirty, Maya had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and stacked it on top of the refrigerator, where Daniel said they would forget it for another week.

“We’ll remember it’s there,” she said, wiping a ring of coffee from the counter.

“We never remember anything above eye level.”

Daniel stood at the stove, stirring onions into a pot of tomato sauce. They had invited four friends for dinner, though their apartment’s table comfortably seated only four people total. Maya unfolded two metal chairs from the hall closet while Daniel tasted the sauce and added salt.

They had been living together for eighteen months, long enough to divide the work without discussing it much. Daniel cooked. Maya handled the table, music, and the last-minute cleaning that revealed how much dust gathered under the radiator.

At six-fifteen, she noticed they had no ice.

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

“You’re wearing the sauce shirt.”

He looked down at the red spot on his sleeve. “It’s thematic.”

While he was gone, Maya sliced bread and arranged it in a bowl lined with a clean dish towel. The first guests arrived early, carrying wine and a grocery-store bouquet. Maya found a jar for the flowers just as Daniel returned with ice and a bag of lemons they had not needed.

Soon the apartment felt warmer and smaller. Coats covered the bed. Someone sat on the arm of the sofa. Daniel served pasta from the kitchen while Maya passed plates and reminded everyone that the metal chairs leaned slightly backward.

Dinner lasted almost two hours. They talked about rent increases, a friend’s new supervisor, and whether anyone still watched local news. One guest spilled wine, and both Maya and Daniel reached for the same towel, bumping shoulders.

After everyone left, they stood among empty glasses and crumpled napkins.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya picked up a fork from the floor. “Nobody fell out of a chair.”

They loaded the dishwasher together, leaving the sauce pot to soak until morning.


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

“Six people, six chairs,” he announced, setting them beside the table.

“One of those wobbles.”

“Then we’ll give it to Eric.”

Maya laughed and pointed at the cabinet. “Can you get down the serving bowl? The blue one.”

They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which tasks each preferred. Maya planned menus and kept an eye on timing. Ben handled drinks, music, and anything stored on a high shelf. Tonight they were making roast chicken, potatoes, and a salad for four friends.

While Maya dried the chicken, Ben crossed out items on the grocery receipt. “We forgot sparkling water.”

“There’s still time.”

He pulled on his jacket, then paused. “Anything else?”

“Ice. And maybe another lemon.”

When he returned, Maya was wiping olive oil from the floor with her sock. The oven had begun to smoke because butter had spilled onto the bottom. Ben opened a window, and together they waved dish towels beneath the alarm until it stopped chirping.

Their friends arrived at seven carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Ben poured drinks while Maya moved the potatoes into a warmer dish. For ten minutes everyone crowded into the kitchen, talking over one another, until Ben steered them toward the table.

Dinner was slightly late. The chicken skin was darker than Maya intended, but the meat was tender. Eric got the wobbly chair and folded a napkin under one leg without complaint. They talked about rent increases, a new manager at work, and whether anyone had watched the documentary everyone kept recommending.

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

Ben filled the sink with soapy water. Maya wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

“The alarm didn’t.”

“It added drama.”

She handed him a plate to wash. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, they worked side by side, already discussing what to do with the leftovers.


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

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

“You can’t see it.”

“I can hear the panic in your voice.”

Daniel shut the oven door and checked the recipe on his phone. They had invited four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee. Their dining table only seated four, so Daniel had borrowed two folding chairs from the downstairs neighbor.

Maya stirred parsley into a bowl of roasted potatoes, then tasted one. “Needs salt.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

While Daniel set the table, Maya moved a stack of mail and two library books from the chairs to their bedroom. They disagreed briefly about whether to light candles. Maya said the overhead light was too harsh; Daniel worried the candles would drip on the table. They compromised by putting one candle on a saucer.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery pie. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, everyone tried to help at once. Daniel carved the chicken while Maya warmed the potatoes again because they had gone cold. Someone dropped a fork, and someone else opened the wrong bottle of wine.

At dinner, the folding chairs wobbled but held. Conversation moved from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer. Maya noticed Daniel quietly giving himself the smallest piece of chicken and passed him another without interrupting the story.

After dessert, their friends lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment was warm and cluttered with glasses.

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya leaned against the counter and ate the last bite of pie directly from the pan.

“Successful?” he asked.

She handed him a fork. “Ask me after we do the dishes.”

They stood together at the sink, washing and drying while the candle burned itself out.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“375. If you burn the chicken, we’re ordering pizza.”

Ben adjusted the dial and checked the roasting pan. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide most household tasks without discussion. Maya handled the salad and set the table; Ben cooked the main dish and chose the music. Tonight, though, both kept crossing into the other’s territory. Ben moved Maya’s water glasses to make room for wine, and she lowered the volume on his playlist when it became difficult to hear the timer.

Their friends arrived just after seven. Luis and Erin brought a bottle of red wine, while Tasha appeared with bakery cookies in a paper box.

“I said not to bring anything,” Maya told her.

“And I ignored you,” Tasha said, handing Ben the box.

The apartment was small, so they pulled a desk chair up to the dining table and used a wooden crate as a stand for the wine. Ben carved the chicken while Maya passed roasted potatoes and green beans. For a few minutes, everyone ate quietly.

“This is actually good,” Luis said.

Ben pointed his fork at him. “The word ‘actually’ was unnecessary.”

After dinner, Maya made coffee while Ben cleared plates. He dropped a fork, and everyone laughed when it bounced under the refrigerator. Erin helped Maya wrap leftover cookies, and Luis dried dishes beside Ben, who washed them with his sleeves pushed to his elbows.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. Maya found a wineglass on the windowsill and carried it to the kitchen. Ben was wiping crumbs from the table into his palm.

“That went well,” he said.

“You nearly forgot the bread.”

“But I remembered it.”

“After I reminded you.”

He smiled and handed her the dish towel. Together they finished cleaning, then stood in the quiet kitchen sharing the last cookie over the sink.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Elena stood at the counter chopping parsley while Marcus crouched in front of the oven, checking the chicken through the cloudy glass.

“Still pale,” he said.

“You opened the door twice.”

“I’m gathering information.”

“You’re letting the heat out.”

They had invited four friends, which was the most their narrow dining table could hold if they added the folding chair from the bedroom. Marcus set out mismatched plates while Elena stirred lemon into a bowl of yogurt sauce. They had lived together for two years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them and still disagree about where the serving spoons belonged.

At six-fifteen, Marcus realized they had no ice. He ran to the corner store while Elena changed her shirt, wiped flour from the faucet, and moved a stack of mail into a kitchen drawer. When he returned, carrying two bags and a bottle of sparkling water, she was lighting the candle on the table.

“Too much?” she asked.

“It hides the scratch.”

The first knock came at six-thirty. Priya brought wine, and Ben arrived behind her with a bakery box. Soon afterward, Tasha and Will appeared, apologizing about traffic.

Dinner began with everyone talking at once. Marcus carved the chicken, though one thigh was slightly underdone and had to go back in the oven. Elena passed roasted potatoes and asked Priya about her new job. Someone spilled water near the bread basket. Will told a long story about his landlord, and Tasha made everyone laugh by imitating the man’s voicemail greeting.

After dessert, the guests helped stack plates but refused to wash them. By ten, the apartment was quiet again.

Marcus filled the sink with hot water. Elena wrapped the leftover chicken and labeled the container with a piece of tape.

“That went well,” he said.

“The potatoes were cold.”

“They were warm enough.”

She handed him a dish towel. Together they cleaned the kitchen, stepping around each other in the familiar, limited space.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like garlic and warm bread. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the clock above the refrigerator. Daniel was at the kitchen table, folding paper napkins into uneven triangles.

“They don’t have to look fancy,” Maya said.

“I’m not trying to make them fancy. I’m trying to make them stand up.”

“They’re napkins, not architecture.”

Daniel flattened one and started over. They had invited four friends for dinner, the largest gathering they had hosted since moving into the apartment last spring. Their dining table officially seated four, so Daniel had borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor downstairs.

Maya tasted the sauce and added salt. Daniel carried the chairs in from the hallway, then shifted the table six inches toward the window. Together they set out mismatched plates, water glasses, and a bottle of inexpensive red wine. Maya lit a candle, frowned at its strong vanilla scent, and blew it out.

The buzzer rang at six-forty, twenty minutes earlier than expected. Daniel looked at the counter, where a cutting board was still covered with parsley stems.

“Can you get that?” Maya asked, already gathering the stems into her palm.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing salad, beer, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put music on Daniel’s phone, and the small apartment quickly filled with conversation.

At dinner, one folding chair wobbled. Daniel fixed it with a folded coaster while Maya passed bowls of pasta. The bread was slightly burned underneath, but everyone ate it anyway. When the wine ran out, they opened the beer.

After dessert, their friends stayed longer than planned, talking about rent increases, work, and a possible summer trip. Near midnight, the last guests left.

Maya leaned against the closed door. Daniel surveyed the crowded sink.

“I think that went well,” he said.

Maya picked up two glasses from the coffee table. “It did. You wash, I’ll dry.”

He turned on the faucet, and she opened the window to let the cool night air into the warm apartment.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and toasted bread. Nina stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce with one hand and scrolling through a recipe on her phone with the other.

“Did you buy basil?” she asked.

Evan stopped halfway through setting the table. “I bought parsley.”

“They’re not interchangeable.”

“They’re both green.”

Nina gave him a look, and he reached for his jacket. Ten minutes later, he returned from the corner market with basil, a bag of ice, and a chocolate cake he claimed had been on sale.

They were hosting four friends, the most they could fit around their secondhand dining table. Evan added two folding chairs and covered a scratch in the wood with a bowl of lemons. Nina tasted the sauce, added salt, then asked him to open the wine.

At seven, the buzzer sounded. Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing flowers, beer, and a container of roasted vegetables. Coats piled on the bed because the hall closet was full of camping gear and an old vacuum cleaner.

Dinner began awkwardly when one folding chair wobbled. Evan folded a napkin and slid it under the short leg. Nina carried in the pasta, and everyone applauded as if she had performed a trick.

The sauce was slightly too spicy, but nobody complained. They talked about a coworker’s strange emails, rising rent, and whether it was worth driving north to see the fall leaves. Evan kept water glasses filled. Nina passed bread and reminded him to sit down.

After dinner, they served the cake directly from its plastic container. One friend washed dishes despite their protests, while another chose music from Evan’s phone. By ten thirty, the apartment was warm and cluttered with empty bottles and used plates.

When the last guest left, Nina leaned against the closed door.

“That went well,” she said.

Evan looked toward the kitchen sink. “Ask me after cleanup.”

They worked side by side, Nina washing and Evan drying. Near midnight, they ate the last two bites of cake over the sink, too tired to find plates.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled like onions and toasted cumin. Maya stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato soup while Daniel crouched beside the dining table, tightening a loose screw in one of the mismatched chairs.

“Please tell me that thing won’t collapse under Chris,” Maya said.

“It’ll hold,” Daniel replied, testing it with both hands. “Probably.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Ohio apartment could comfortably fit. Maya had planned grilled cheese sandwiches and soup, simple enough until she decided to make three kinds of sandwiches. Daniel had volunteered to clean, then spent twenty minutes arranging a playlist.

At six, Maya noticed they were out of butter.

“I used the last of it this morning,” Daniel admitted.

“For toast?”

“For eggs.”

She looked at him, then at the sliced bread covering the counter. Daniel grabbed his jacket and hurried to the corner market. While he was gone, Maya lowered the soup, cleared a stack of mail from the kitchen counter, and moved their drying laundry into the bedroom.

Daniel returned with butter, sparkling water, and a bag of ice. “The ice felt responsible,” he said.

Their friends arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, bringing wine, cookies, and a potted basil plant. Coats piled on the bed. Daniel poured drinks and introduced two guests who had never met, while Maya worked the skillet, pressing sandwiches until the cheese melted at the edges.

They ate close together around the table. The repaired chair squeaked but held. Someone spilled soup, and Daniel fetched a towel before Maya could stand. Later, Maya divided the cookies onto a plate while Daniel made coffee in batches because their machine was too small.

By ten-thirty, the last guests had left. The apartment was quiet except for the dishwasher.

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

Daniel looked at the crowded sink. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She handed him a dish towel anyway, and together they started cleaning.


By five-thirty, Elena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and set the table with the blue plates her aunt had given her. Marcus stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while checking the garlic bread through the oven window.

“Did you buy sparkling water?” Elena asked.

Marcus stopped stirring. “I bought regular water.”

Elena opened the refrigerator and shifted a carton of eggs. “We have six cans. That’s enough.”

They were expecting four friends from work and the neighborhood. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the apartment in Columbus, and the living room still had an unpacked box beside the bookcase. Elena carried it to the bedroom while Marcus tasted the sauce and added salt.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Their neighbor Tasha arrived first, holding a grocery-store bouquet. Behind her came Daniel and Priya with a bottle of wine, followed by Marcus’s coworker Ben, who apologized for being late even though he was only five minutes behind everyone else.

The apartment quickly felt smaller. Coats piled on the bed, glasses gathered on the coffee table, and the kitchen filled with conversation. Elena finished the salad while answering Priya’s questions about their landlord. Marcus drained the pasta, splashing hot water onto the floor.

“I’ve got it,” Elena said, reaching for a towel.

“No, keep going,” he replied, wiping the tiles with his socked foot before finding the mop.

Dinner was crowded but easy. They passed bowls from hand to hand and laughed when the garlic bread turned out darker than Marcus had intended. Tasha asked whether they planned to stay in the neighborhood, and Elena and Marcus exchanged a brief look.

“For now,” Marcus said.

“We like it here,” Elena added.

After everyone left, they stood together at the sink. Marcus washed while Elena dried. The apartment smelled of coffee and roasted garlic.

“That went well,” he said.

Elena stacked the last plate. “Next time, we need more sparkling water.”

Marcus smiled. “Next time, you’re making the sauce.”


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the baked pasta. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which tasks belonged to whom without discussing them, though they still discussed them anyway.

“Did you get ice?” Lena asked.

Marcus stopped chopping. “I got wine.”

“So no ice.”

“I’ll go.”

She laughed and handed him the grocery list, where “ICE” was underlined twice. While he drove to the convenience store, Lena set out six mismatched plates, including two blue ones they had bought at a yard sale. She folded paper napkins into rectangles, then unfolded them because they looked too formal.

Marcus returned with ice, sparkling water, and a bag of tortilla chips. Together they finished the salad and slid the pasta into the oven. Lena tasted the dressing and added lemon. Marcus wiped sauce from the stove and took the recycling downstairs.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another: Priya and Daniel with flowers, and Owen carrying a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed because the apartment’s hall closet would not close properly.

Dinner began late after Marcus realized he had forgotten to turn on the oven timer. The pasta was browned at the edges but still good. Everyone squeezed around the table, passing salad over elbows and balancing glasses near the salt shaker. They talked about rent increases, a difficult manager at Priya’s office, and whether Owen should adopt the elderly dog he had been fostering.

After dessert, Daniel helped Marcus stack plates while Lena made coffee. Someone put on music from a phone, and the conversation drifted into the living room.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Lena gathered glasses; Marcus wrapped the remaining cake.

“That went well,” he said.

“We forgot to serve the bread.”

They looked at the untouched loaf on top of the refrigerator.

“Breakfast,” Marcus said.

Lena nodded, turned off the kitchen light, and followed him down the hall.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, lemon, and the faintly scorched dust of the radiator. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel crouched beside the oven, trying to read the temperature dial through the scratched glass.

“It runs hot,” she reminded him.

“It runs mysterious,” he said, lowering the heat beneath the roasting chicken.

They had invited four friends, which was the most their secondhand dining table could hold. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor. Maya cleared unopened mail from the table and carried it to the bedroom, where she placed it on an already unstable stack.

They worked around each other without much discussion. She made a salad and tasted the dressing from a spoon. He washed wineglasses, holding each one up to the light for spots. When Maya realized they had forgotten bread, Daniel put on his coat and jogged to the corner market. He returned ten minutes later with two baguettes and a bag of ice.

“You got enough for a restaurant,” she said.

“I panicked.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, flowers, and a pie from a bakery across town. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker on the bookshelf, and music filled the living room.

At dinner, the chicken was slightly dry, but the potatoes were crisp. Maya kept the salad bowl moving around the table, while Daniel refilled water glasses and told the story of the smoke alarm going off during their first week in the apartment. Everyone talked over one another about rent increases, a new manager at work, and whether they could manage a summer trip together.

After dessert, their guests lingered until nearly eleven. At the door, Maya handed back scarves and Daniel found a missing glove under the couch.

When the apartment was quiet again, they stood among plates and half-empty glasses.

“Worth it?” Daniel asked.

Maya leaned against him, tired. “Ask me after we load the dishwasher.”

Together, they carried the first stack into the kitchen.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic and onions. Maya stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce while checking the recipe on her phone. Across the kitchen, Ben sliced a loaf of bread, producing pieces of wildly different thicknesses.

“Those are less like slices and more like geological layers,” Maya said.

“They’ll taste the same,” Ben replied, arranging them on a baking sheet.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first gathering in their new apartment outside Denver. They had lived together for eight months, long enough to divide most chores without discussion, but hosting still made them nervous.

Ben vacuumed the living room and moved a stack of unopened mail into the bedroom. Maya set the table with mismatched plates, then counted the forks twice. When she realized they had only five wineglasses, Ben washed a jam jar and placed it at his own seat.

At six-fifteen, the sauce began to stick. Maya turned down the heat while Ben opened the windows, letting in cold November air. The smoke alarm stayed silent.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying salad, wine, and a bakery box tied with string. Coats piled on the bed. Someone connected a phone to the small speaker near the television, and quiet music filled the room.

Dinner was crowded but easy. Ben served pasta from the pot because they had no large bowl. Maya passed grated Parmesan and reminded everyone that the bread was hot. One piece fell to the floor, and their friend Lena picked it up before Ben could.

Conversation moved from work to rent increases to a camping trip they kept promising to organize. The sauce was slightly too salty, but nobody complained. They finished both loaves of bread.

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

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

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded counter and smiled. “Ask me after we clean.”

He handed her a dish towel, and they started together.


By five, the apartment smelled of garlic and furniture polish. Maya had wiped the dining table twice, though Daniel insisted the second pass only moved dust from one side to the other.

“It’s an old table,” he said, carrying in two folding chairs from the bedroom closet. “It has character.”

“It has crumbs in the grooves.”

They were hosting four friends, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without someone eating from the windowsill. Maya chopped parsley for the pasta while Daniel shaped meatballs and lined them on a baking sheet. They moved around each other carefully in the narrow kitchen, opening drawers, trading utensils, and occasionally bumping hips.

At six, Daniel realized they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya changed her shirt after splattering tomato sauce on the sleeve. When he returned, she was standing on a chair, trying to replace a burned-out bulb above the table.

“Please get down,” he said, setting the ice on the counter. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re holding melting ice.”

They switched jobs. Maya filled a bowl and wedged it into the freezer; Daniel changed the bulb.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, bringing wine, bread, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Someone put on music from a phone, and the apartment quickly grew warm.

The pasta stuck together slightly, and one meatball rolled off the serving plate. Daniel caught it against his sweater before it hit the floor. Everyone laughed, including Maya, who handed him a napkin.

Dinner stretched for two hours. They discussed rent increases, a friend’s new supervisor, and whether anyone truly enjoyed running. Maya refilled glasses; Daniel cleared plates and started coffee.

After the last guests left, they stood among half-empty cups and crumpled napkins.

“That went well,” Daniel said.

Maya looked at the sauce on his sweater and the crowded sink. “It did.”

They packed leftovers, loaded the dishwasher, and left the folding chairs for morning. Then they split the last piece of pie at the kitchen counter, eating directly from the tin.


By five o’clock, the apartment smelled of garlic and lemon. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel wrestled with the folding table they had borrowed from the downstairs neighbor.

“It’s supposed to lock,” he said, crouching to inspect the metal legs.

“It’s also supposed to be a table,” Maya replied. “Aim for that first.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Their dining table seated three comfortably, four if nobody moved their elbows, so Daniel set up the folding table beside it and covered both with a blue tablecloth. The uneven heights bothered him until Maya tucked a folded dish towel under one leg.

While she seasoned chicken thighs, Daniel rinsed rice and searched for the missing measuring cup. They found it in the refrigerator, inside a container of leftover soup.

“You did that,” he said.

“I probably did,” Maya admitted.

At six thirty, Daniel changed his shirt after splashing dishwater on it. Maya lit two candles, then blew one out because its scent competed with dinner. They disagreed briefly about music and settled on an old soul playlist neither had chosen.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine, seltzer, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the kitchen window when the smoke alarm chirped as Maya pulled the chicken from the oven.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Daniel kept refilling water glasses and passing the salad. Maya told the story of the measuring cup, exaggerating his accusation until everyone laughed. One guest dropped a fork; another asked for the chicken recipe.

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

Daniel washed while Maya dried. They worked without speaking for a few minutes, listening to the radiator knock.

“That went well,” he said.

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

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

Daniel handed her the last plate. “And buy a real table.”

They left the folding one standing until morning.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“Definitely not 425,” Maya said. “Unless we want to serve charcoal.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs borrowed from the downstairs neighbor while Maya arranged mismatched plates around a bowl of grocery-store tulips.

At six, the chicken was roasting, the beans were blanched, and Daniel had begun making rice. He lifted the lid too often.

“You’re letting the steam out,” Maya told him.

“I’m checking on it.”

“That’s what the timer is for.”

He put the lid back and set out drinks. Maya changed her shirt after noticing olive oil on the sleeve. While she was in the bedroom, the smoke alarm chirped. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it and opened the kitchen window.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, sparkling water, and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath.

The chicken was slightly dry, but the lemon sauce helped. The rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot, so Daniel served from the top and quietly filled the pot with water before anyone noticed. Maya’s beans, tossed with almonds, disappeared first.

After dinner, they opened the bakery box and found six enormous cupcakes. Conversation drifted from rent increases to a friend’s new job, then to a long argument about the best road-trip snacks.

By eleven, the guests had gone. Maya gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the crowded sink and the tulips leaning sideways in their bowl.

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

Daniel handed her a dish towel. “Next time, we use paper plates.”


By five-thirty, Nora had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and hidden it in the bedroom, where it joined two weeks of unopened catalogs on a chair. In the kitchen, Daniel stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“It needs something,” he said.

“It needs time,” Nora replied, carrying in a stack of mismatched plates. They had lived together for three years, long enough to know which disagreements mattered. Sauce was not one of them.

They were expecting four friends at seven. Nora vacuumed the living room while Daniel rolled meatballs, pausing to move a lamp so she could reach the corner. When the vacuum cord caught under the couch, he freed it with his foot, his hands still coated in breadcrumbs.

At six-fifteen, Nora changed her shirt after splashing herself while washing lettuce. Daniel discovered they were out of Parmesan and walked to the corner market. He returned with cheese, sparkling water, and a bunch of tulips.

“Those weren’t on the list,” she said, smiling as she found a jar for them.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. Someone opened the wrong kitchen drawer looking for a corkscrew, and Daniel directed them to the next one without turning from the stove.

Dinner was crowded but easy. The meatballs were slightly too salty, though no one complained. Nora passed the salad and asked about a friend’s new job. Daniel refilled glasses and told the story of their upstairs neighbor’s smoke alarm going off at two in the morning.

After dessert, everyone lingered until nearly eleven. When the door finally closed, the apartment seemed suddenly larger.

Nora gathered glasses while Daniel scraped plates into the trash. They worked without discussing it, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen.

“That went well,” he said.

Nora looked at the sink full of dishes. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He handed her a tulip that had fallen from the jar, and she tucked it behind her ear before turning on the faucet.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping parsley while Daniel carried two folding chairs up from the basement. They had been living together in their Columbus apartment for three years, long enough to know which floorboard squeaked and which burner ran hot, but they had never hosted more than one friend at a time.

“Six chairs,” Daniel said, setting the last one beside the table. “Assuming nobody brings a surprise guest.”

Maya looked up. “Don’t say that.”

They were expecting four friends at seven. Maya had made a large pot of tomato sauce that afternoon, and Daniel was responsible for salad, garlic bread, and drinks. At six fifteen, he realized he had forgotten sparkling water. He pulled on his jacket and hurried to the corner store while Maya lowered the heat under the sauce and cleared a stack of mail from the sideboard.

By the time Daniel returned, the apartment smelled of garlic and oregano. He put bottles in the refrigerator, then sliced a baguette while Maya changed into a clean shirt. They bumped elbows at the sink, laughed, and traded places without discussing it.

Their friends arrived in pairs, carrying wine and a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed. For the first half hour, everyone stood in the kitchen, even though Daniel kept pointing toward the living room.

Dinner was slightly late. The pasta stuck together, and one end of the garlic bread burned, but nobody seemed concerned. Maya passed bowls around while Daniel refilled glasses and told a story about their upstairs neighbor’s runaway cat. Conversation moved from work to rent increases to a movie none of them had finished.

After dessert, they played cards at the crowded table. At ten thirty, the first pair left to catch a bus. The others stayed another hour, helping stack plates before putting on their coats.

When the door finally closed, Maya leaned against it. Daniel surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and sauce-spattered stove.

“Successful?” he asked.

She picked up two plates. “Ask me after we load the dishwasher.”

Together, they returned to the kitchen, tired but pleased, and began making the apartment theirs again.


By five-thirty, the apartment smelled of garlic, onions, and the lemon cleaner Maya had used on the kitchen counters. She stood over a pot of tomato sauce, tasting it with a wooden spoon, while Daniel dragged the vacuum cleaner around the living room.

“Too salty?” she asked.

He switched off the vacuum and crossed the room. “You ask me that every time.”

“And every time you answer.”

Daniel tasted the sauce. “It needs pepper.”

Maya rolled her eyes but added some.

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small apartment could hold comfortably. Daniel unfolded two metal chairs from the hall closet and squeezed them around the table. Maya set out mismatched plates, including one with a faded blue rim that had belonged to her grandmother.

At six-fifteen, Daniel realized they had forgotten ice. He ran to the corner store while Maya changed her shirt, burned the first batch of garlic bread, and opened a window to clear the smoke.

Their friends arrived within ten minutes of one another, carrying wine, flowers, and a bakery box. Coats piled up on the bed. Someone put music on Daniel’s speaker, and soon the apartment filled with overlapping conversations.

Dinner was crowded but cheerful. Daniel served pasta while Maya passed the salad. When one of the folding chairs wobbled, they slid a coaster under its leg. The sauce splattered onto the tablecloth, and nobody cared.

Afterward, Maya made coffee while Daniel divided a chocolate tart into uneven slices. Their friends stayed longer than expected, talking about rent increases, a new job, and a disastrous first date.

By eleven, the last guest had left. Daniel locked the door and leaned against it.

“That went well,” he said.

Maya looked at the tower of plates in the sink. “Mostly.”

They worked side by side, Daniel washing and Maya drying. When they finished, he turned off the kitchen light. The apartment was quiet again, except for the refrigerator humming and the soft scrape of their feet as they carried the folding chairs back to the closet.


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

“Is that 375 or 425?” he asked.

“375. Please don’t turn the chicken into charcoal.”

Daniel adjusted the dial and checked the roasting pan. They had invited four friends for dinner, their first time hosting since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus. The dining table, bought secondhand, barely fit six chairs. Two of them were folding chairs borrowed from a neighbor.

While Maya mixed dressing for the salad, Daniel cleared mail, keys, and a bicycle light from the table. He set out mismatched plates and folded paper napkins into uneven triangles. Maya noticed one plate had a chip.

“Give that one to Ben,” she said. “He won’t care.”

At six fifteen, the chicken was still pale. Daniel raised the heat, and Maya texted the group that dinner would be “casually delayed.” Then the smoke alarm went off when butter spilled onto the oven floor. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya opened the windows, laughing despite herself.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, bread, and a grocery-store pie. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone crowded into the kitchen, where Daniel sliced bread and Maya finished the salad. Ben opened the wine; Priya found a playlist on her phone.

Dinner was served forty minutes late. The chicken was a little dry at the edges, but the potatoes were crisp, and people took second helpings. Conversation moved from work complaints to rent increases to a disastrous camping trip from the previous summer.

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

Daniel filled the sink with hot water. Maya wrapped the leftover chicken.

“That went well,” he said.

“The smoke alarm added atmosphere.”

He washed while she dried, both tired, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of long practice.


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the chili. They had lived together for three years, long enough to divide chores without discussing them but not long enough to stop offering opinions.

“Those pieces are huge,” Lena said.

“They’ll cook down.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Marcus slid the onions into the pot and turned on the fan. Lena carried the mail to the bedroom, then returned with six mismatched cloth napkins. Their apartment in Columbus was small, with a dining area wedged between the kitchen and living room. They had invited four friends, which meant borrowing two folding chairs from the downstairs neighbor.

While Marcus seasoned the chili, Lena made cornbread. She discovered they were out of milk, so Marcus walked to the corner store. He came back with milk, ice, and a bag of tortilla chips.

“Chips weren’t on the list,” she said.

“They’re insurance.”

By six, the apartment smelled of cumin and butter. Lena lit a candle, then blew it out because it competed with the food. Marcus set out bowls and realized one was chipped. They replaced it with a large coffee mug.

Their friends arrived carrying wine, seltzer, and a supermarket pie. Coats piled on the bed. Everyone squeezed around the table, knees bumping underneath. The chili was slightly too spicy, so Lena passed around sour cream while Marcus refilled water glasses. The cornbread stuck to the pan, but he loosened it with a spatula and served the pieces upside down.

After dinner, they moved to the living room and played a card game. Lena kept score; Marcus disputed her arithmetic and lost anyway. By eleven, the guests had gone, leaving damp rings on the table and half a pie.

Marcus began stacking dishes. Lena tied up the trash and opened the window to cool the room.

“That went well,” he said.

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

He handed her a dish towel, and together they started.


At four on Saturday, Lena cleared a stack of mail from the dining table while Mark stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions. They had invited four friends for dinner, the first time they had hosted anyone since moving into the apartment in June.

“Do we own six matching plates?” Mark asked.

“We own four matching plates and three plates with birds on them.”

“Good enough.”

Lena folded a clean dish towel over the oven handle and checked the chicken roasting with lemon and thyme. Mark stirred onions into a pot of rice, then opened the refrigerator and frowned.

“You forgot the parsley.”

“I forgot to buy it,” she corrected. “There’s cilantro.”

“That changes the whole direction.”

“The rice doesn’t have a direction.”

They laughed, and Mark used the cilantro.

By six, the apartment smelled warm and savory. Lena lit two candles and immediately blew one out because it was too close to the curtains. Mark carried recycling downstairs, returning just as the buzzer sounded.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, a bakery pie, and a bag of ice nobody had requested but everyone appreciated. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Lena poured drinks while Mark carved the chicken. He dropped a slice on the floor, picked it up, and quietly put it in the trash.

At dinner, the plates did not match, and one chair squeaked whenever Priya leaned back. Conversation moved from a coworker’s wedding to rising rents to a disastrous camping trip. Mark kept passing the rice, pleased when people took seconds. Lena noticed the chicken was slightly dry, but no one complained.

Afterward, their friends carried dishes to the sink despite Lena’s protests. They ate pie in the living room, balancing plates on their knees.

By eleven, the apartment was quiet again. Mark filled the sink with soapy water while Lena wrapped the remaining chicken.

“That went well,” she said.

Mark looked at the crowded counter. “Ask me after the dishes.”

She handed him a plate, and together they began cleaning.


By four o’clock, the apartment smelled of onions and lemon cleaner. Maya stood at the kitchen counter chopping carrots while Daniel carried a stack of old magazines from the coffee table to the bedroom.

“Don’t just hide them,” she called.

“I’m relocating them,” he said, nudging the bedroom door shut with his foot.

They were expecting four friends at seven. It was the first dinner they had hosted since moving into the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus, and their folding table barely seated six. Daniel unfolded two borrowed chairs and tested each one with his weight. Maya stirred a pot of tomato sauce, tasted it, and frowned.

“Too acidic.”

Daniel came over with a teaspoon. “Sugar?”

“Maybe butter.”

They added both, then agreed it was better.

At six, Maya changed her shirt after splashing sauce on the sleeve. Daniel ran downstairs for ice and returned with a bag leaking onto his jeans. Together they set the table with mismatched plates, cloth napkins Maya’s mother had given them, and water glasses from a restaurant supply store.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing wine, bread, and a supermarket bouquet. Coats piled on the bed despite Maya’s earlier objections. Daniel opened bottles while Maya finished the pasta, and everyone crowded into the kitchen, talking over the hiss of boiling water.

At dinner, one borrowed chair creaked alarmingly, but held. The pasta clumped slightly, and Maya apologized until her friend Lena asked for seconds. Daniel told the story of the smoke alarm going off during their first attempt at roasting chicken. Maya corrected three details, and the table broke into laughter.

After dessert—store-bought pie warmed in the oven—the guests stayed later than expected. When the door finally closed behind them, the apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator.

Daniel began stacking plates. Maya filled the sink with hot water.

“That went well,” he said.

She looked at the crowded counter, the stained tablecloth, and the empty serving bowl.

“It did.”

They washed the dishes together, passing each plate from soapy water to towel, too tired to hurry.


By five thirty, the apartment smelled like onions, lemon, and the rosemary plant Claire kept forgetting to water. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, while Marcus unfolded the dining table from its usual position against the wall.

“It seats six if nobody needs elbows,” he said.

“We invited four people.”

“I’m counting us.”

Claire tasted the sauce and handed him the spoon. Marcus added salt, then carried a stack of mismatched plates from the cupboard. They had lived together for two years but still owned only three matching ones.

Their friends were due at seven. Marcus vacuumed while Claire shaped meatballs, and they traded complaints about the vacuum cord getting caught under the sofa. At six fifteen, Claire realized they had forgotten ice. Marcus put on his jacket and walked to the corner store, returning with two bags, sparkling water, and a bunch of yellow tulips.

“For the table,” he said, trimming the stems with kitchen scissors.

The first knock came at seven-oh-five. Lena and Paul brought wine; Jasmine and Theo arrived ten minutes later with a bakery box. Coats piled on the bed, and everyone crowded into the kitchen despite Claire’s repeated invitations to sit down.

Marcus poured drinks and kept the conversation moving while Claire drained the pasta. When one meatball rolled off the serving platter, he caught it against his shirt, leaving a red streak. Everyone laughed, including him.

Dinner was noisy and slightly cramped. Paul told a story about his new manager, Jasmine asked for the sauce recipe, and Theo accidentally knocked over his water. Marcus fetched a towel before the spill reached the rug. Claire passed around more bread.

After dessert, their friends stayed longer than expected. By eleven, the apartment had gone quiet again. Claire stacked plates while Marcus filled the sink.

“That went well,” he said.

“You have sauce on your shirt.”

“I know.”

She leaned against him for a moment, tired and pleased. Then they turned on the faucet and began washing dishes together.


By five-thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter and hidden the recycling bin in the laundry closet. Marcus stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce while reading the recipe on his phone.

“It says simmer for forty-five minutes,” he said.

“It said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I forgot to start the timer.”

Lena laughed and set four mismatched plates around the dining table. She and Marcus had lived in the apartment outside Minneapolis for two years, long enough to accumulate good wineglasses but not a complete set of dishes. Tonight, their friends Tasha and Ben were coming over, the first guests they had invited since winter.

Marcus tasted the sauce and added salt. Lena sliced a loaf of bread, brushed the pieces with olive oil, and arranged them on a baking sheet. They moved around each other easily, though twice Marcus opened a drawer just as Lena reached for it.

At six-fifteen, the buzzer sounded. Tasha arrived carrying a bottle of red wine, with Ben behind her holding a grocery-store cake.

“We didn’t know what kind you liked,” Ben said, “so we picked chocolate.”

“Correct choice,” Marcus told him.

While Lena poured wine, Marcus drained the pasta. Steam clouded his glasses, and Tasha teased him as he wiped them on his shirt. They ate at the small table with their knees nearly touching. The sauce was slightly too salty, but no one complained. Ben told a story about getting locked out of his office, and Lena described the neighbor’s cat that had begun waiting outside their door each morning.

After dinner, Marcus made coffee while Lena cut the cake. Tasha helped stack plates, despite Lena’s protests. By ten, their friends had put on their coats and promised to host next time.

When the door closed, the apartment seemed suddenly quiet. Marcus filled the sink with hot water. Lena wrapped the leftover cake.

“That went well,” she said.

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

“Especially with the sauce.”

They cleaned the kitchen together, leaving the plates to dry overnight.


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

“Is that three-seventy-five?” he asked.

“It’s either that or four-fifty,” Maya said. “Turn it left a little.”

They had invited four friends for dinner, the most their small Chicago apartment could hold without borrowing chairs. Daniel had spent the afternoon clearing mail from the dining table and carrying two folding chairs up from the basement. Maya had made a grocery run, returning with chicken thighs, potatoes, salad greens, and a bottle of wine that had been on sale.

At six, Daniel set the table with mismatched plates. Maya noticed he had forgotten napkins and folded paper towels into triangles. They both laughed, then stopped when the smoke alarm chirped. A little olive oil had spilled onto the oven floor. Daniel opened a window while Maya waved a dish towel beneath the alarm.

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing bread, beer, and a bakery box of cupcakes. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Maya stirred the potatoes and asked everyone to stay out of the narrow doorway. Daniel opened bottles and introduced two friends who had never met.

Dinner was fifteen minutes late, but no one seemed bothered. The chicken was crisp at the edges, the salad slightly overdressed. Conversation moved from rent increases to a coworker’s wedding, then to whether anyone still watched cable television.

After dessert, one friend helped collect plates while another found music on Daniel’s phone. Near ten, the last guests left, promising to host next time.

Maya leaned against the closed door. Daniel surveyed the glasses, crumbs, and stack of dishes.

“That went well,” he said.

“It did,” she agreed, gathering forks.

He filled the sink with hot water. She wrapped the leftover chicken. They worked side by side, tired but pleased, while traffic hissed on the wet street below.


By five-thirty, Lena had cleared the mail from the kitchen counter while Marcus stood at the stove, stirring tomato sauce and reading the recipe from his phone.

“It says simmer for forty minutes,” he said.

“It said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I restarted the timer after I added the wine.”

Lena shook her head and carried a stack of unopened envelopes to the bedroom. Their apartment in Columbus was small enough that hosting six people required strategy. She folded the drying rack, moved two houseplants onto the windowsill, and pulled the extra chairs from the hall closet. One chair wobbled, so Marcus found a screwdriver and tightened it while the sauce bubbled.

They had been living together for two years, but they still disagreed about dinner music. Lena chose a quiet playlist. Marcus replaced it with something louder. They compromised by turning his down.

At six-fifteen, Lena changed her shirt after splashing salad dressing on the first one. Marcus tasted the sauce, added salt, then worried he had added too much. She handed him a piece of bread.

“It’s fine,” she said after tasting it. “Stop touching it.”

Their friends arrived in pairs, bringing flowers, beer, and a bakery box of cookies. Coats piled on the bed. In the kitchen, Lena poured drinks while Marcus drained pasta. When the colander slipped, several noodles landed in the sink, but nobody saw except Lena. She raised her eyebrows; he quietly scooped them into the trash.

Dinner was crowded and warm. Everyone passed bowls over elbows and argued about a new bike lane downtown. Marcus told a story Lena had heard before, but he added a detail that made her laugh. Later, she served cookies on mismatched plates while he made coffee.

By ten-thirty, the guests had gone. The apartment looked larger again, though every surface held a glass or crumb. Lena filled the sink. Marcus wrapped the leftover pasta.

“Successful?” he asked.

She leaned against him, tired. “No one broke the chair.”

He glanced toward it. “That’s because I fixed it.”

Together, they began washing dishes.