There wasn't a single, solitary time when he didn't feel as though he'd missed something.
Every time he would look around the room, occasionally scouring the other rooms too, in search of an errant cup or small plate with a teaspoon on it. Only once did he find a teacup in the bedroom. He liked the fact that neither of them drank their tea or coffee in the bedroom. Or if they did, they had the good grace to bring the crockery out after themselves. Not that either of them were particularly neat but nonetheless this was definitely one concession to cleanliness that they both adhered to.
Today everything was laid off to the left hand side. Teaspoons used over and over again and left lying about for the past three days. The two plates from last night's dinner. Two small plates with streaks of dried sauce from which they'd eaten pies the day before. A small porcelain bowl that still had an olive pip which he tipped into the plastic bag that served as a bin. The breadboard used last night to cut the onion and garlic for the salad they ate. Five mugs. Which was odd because no one had visited over the previous days and he was inclined to use the same over-sized mug, much to the scarcely concealed, mild disgust of visitors. Two saucepans that had boiled the potatoes and snow peas - the latter of which were something of a luxury given that they were both unemployed. But it's acknowledged the world over that the odd small luxury can alleviate the stresses and uncertainties of simply dragging oneself out of bed some days. Look at the cigarette. But since neither of them smoked anymore, occasional treats such as snow peas made up for the barely perceptible blanket of emptiness that chased their days.
And then, of course, there was the cast iron frying pan.
Plugs, discoloured through overuse, into both sinks and the delicate balance of very hot water in first one, then the other. The discount dish washing liquid in the larger of the two followed by the dirty cutlery and then the plates and olive pit bowl. Water still slightly too hot. But he preferred it that way. Tap off and gingerly plunge hands into the sudsy water, in search of the murder knives - the two large knives they'd use to peel and chop the vegetables. Lifting one out, he slightly enjoyed the fact that his hands were already reddened by the almost scalding water but decided to run a bit more cold water. No point in getting stupid about it all. He carefully cleaned the gleaming knives and set them in the tray, out of harm's way as it were. The spud masher, which had been rinsed reasonably thoroughly anyway so there was little starchy residue at the base. After a quick rinse in the second sink, it too was set in the tray off to one side. The bread board quickly followed. Rigidity was a moot point here on out.
The knives, forks, spoons, a spud peeler and the two hand-made pewter salad spoons all received much the same treatment. These last needed an extra bit of work to get the dried basil off the hilt. All but the pewter spoons fitted neatly in the front area of the rack. These were laid upon the murder knives. They called them the murder knives because they were big and sharp and the name just seemed apt.
And now the cups and mugs and a glass he'd almost missed, that had been sitting on the opposite sideboard. She'd taken a soluble aspirin the night before to get rid of a nagging headache. He took care to clean the mugs with great attention. By this stage, a Kinks song was running through his head. He liked the Kinks. Most, if not all, sixties music for that matter. He realised that he was now at the point of a strange happiness, not necessarily brought on by ritual - that would come shortly - but by the certainty with which this thing, this chore or task, should be approached. And while it wasn't a thing he enjoyed, as such, he could almost feel the serotonin release from the necessary informality of it all. The terror of outstanding bills and coming rent was mitigated somewhat and he knew it was in part due to this simple act.
That was that.
Except for the frying pan.
He reached in and pulled the plug from first the main sink and then the now sudsed up rinse sink. He took this brief moment to enjoy the water draining away before turning on the tap again and scouring both sinks to get rid of the small amount of scummy residue. A murderous bullet of a thought, "Three hundred dollars outstanding -" And now, almost as a defense mechanism, an early Runaways song, 'Hollywood' started earworming through his thoughts. And he let it. The bills would be there later. The worries too. The doubt. The mild, constant sadness from a year's unemployment from any steady job. These and every other enemy of good cheer and joy would still be there. But for now, they could go to hell.
The frying pan was heavy in his hand. It strained the muscles on his forearm every time. Made of dark cast iron with a strong and solid wooden handle, they had both long since developed a love/hate relationship with it. Given to her by her mother, with the express agreement that it only be cleaned and rinsed in hot water, it had almost single-handedly cooked countless meals to perfection. He scoffed at this edict when she first mentioned it to him, thinking that it must surely be an old wives' tale but a quick check on Google had confirmed her mother's sage advice. The idea being that the dish washing liquid was too efficient and that the pan should be left with a steadily increasing amount of barely perceptible detritus from each previous dish cooked in it. So hot water and a careful scouring were the order every time
This thing that had begun in tedium then, had become one of his many moments of satisfaction during these long months of unemployment. The frying pan through no virtue of its own had become something of a sand and rock garden to him, to be savoured and lovingly cultivated. He was aware of all of this today, as he swirled the hot water around and around. Now looking for something he may have missed, now gently scouring. Until finally he was satisfied.
But this was not the end. He could leave the other - the lesser - accoutrements to sit and dry in the rack and be put away at leisure but this frying pan demanded more care. He sought one of the clean tea towels hanging off the back of the chair and awkwardly (for there was no other way to describe handling this heavy thing) dried every millimeter of the saucepan, paying particular attention to the inner base. He even surreptitiously checked through the door to make sure she was engrossed in her work at the computer before holding it up to the light at the window to make sure he had done his best.
He placed it down on the stove top with an unmistakable single clunk and reached for the bottle of olive oil, slightly greasy on the outside from so much use. The jukebox-in-his-head had decided to play an old, obscure Paul McCartney song and again, he did not object in the least, even going so far as to softly sing along. "Weeell, when I walk, when I walk. Walk my horse up by the hill...", before trailing off to silence, not wishing to disturb the superior version in his head. Unscrewing the cap, he poured a little of the olive oil onto the frying pan and resealed the bottle. With both hands, he swished the oil slowly around the pan before tearing off some paper towels and spreading the oil evenly all over the inside.
At last the song finished and he was satisfied in a supremely ordinary way.
And he was grateful that she had shown him the way.
Days
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