Cleansing ritual
Against graying tile the splashed remains of coffee create a Rorschach test, along with the grounds from last night’s bungle with the grinder. They play beside the ghostly circular outlines of a wine glass and a hardened brown remnant of a banana peel. Dirty dishes lie dormant in the dirty porcelain sink. Recycling, all bottles: beer, wine, gin (the odd duck in this household of soft liquor), a large caper container, waits for someone to walk with it in arms across the house, through the front door, and down the steps to the bin.
A knife lies ominously next to a partially autopsied peach, the fruit’s pit moldy and split, its juice adhering it to the battered cutting board and still on the knife, too, waiting for her to clean it off.
On the floor, the ridiculous Mexican tile that takes in every stain, every remnant of cat puke and the overflow from the animal’s water dish, every sticky watermelon drip (oh, that he would stop just ripping into it with his teeth right beside the refrigerator), there are crumbs from a late night attempt at a sandwich. And here’s the bread, too, left out, gone hard by the darkened cheddar and bleeding tomato.
Did she do this? She remembers a dinner without eating, the preparation in the kitchen that took too long, their impatience, the bottle of Zinfandel heavy on the grape (now in the recycling to-go stack). There was an argument, something about politics or was it love or the two of them combined, and she cried or maybe she made the kid cry, and then there was the sob over the sink. Later, after her coffee and her little pill, she will check the sent file in her email, will cruise Facebook for the trail of oddities, of strange comments and overwrought complaints, but for now, it is time to clean up.
Hot soapy water, coffee with soymilk, oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, the sink bubbling and steaming like a cauldron, the cleansing ritual, the soothing ritual. She will wait until they wake up to take the bottles outside. The dishes watch patiently as she rolls up her robe sleeves and gets to work, wielding her water and vinegar spray against last night's kitchen transgressions.
From the prompt "On the kitchen counter." Yes, the setting is my kitchen counter, but the writing is not about my life.
I'm posting every messy Round Robin prompt, a prompt a day until the RR ends. Unless I tell you otherwise, this is the original 12-minute prompt edited only for clarity and typos.
Image by TimeMachine Sailing.