The Danger of Dirty Dishes

The bowl already looks clean. I’m pretty sure that if I held it up in the right light I could see my reflection in it. But that would require taking the bowl out of Katie’s hands and she seems to have a lethal grip on it, so I let her keep scrubbing. There’s really nothing else to do when she gets like this. She used to say that cleaning calms her but it doesn’t seem like that to me. Even now she’s grunting as if the bowl is physically fighting back against the sponge. 

I picked the wrong time to refill my glass of water. I think about retreating back to the couch, pretending that I didn’t walk in on her in the heat of frustration. She heard me though. She hears everything. I try to tell myself that she’s just observant and not totally neurotic. 

Before I can decide what to say, she shoots a look over her shoulder. 

“Do you need something?” She asks. Her voice is light, but her eyes are narrowed on me. 

“Just some water,” I say, pointing to my empty glass. I try to match her easy tone. 

“Right,” she says, and makes way for me to use the sink. I don’t miss her sigh. 

I don’t move for a moment. I can’t tell if I’ve walked into an argument that I’ve already lost. But at my hesitation, Katie gestures at the sink, motioning for me to hurry up. I do. 

She sighs again while I’m filling up my water. As if it takes more than a moment for my glass to fill. As if I have any control over how quickly the water comes out. As if me filling my glass is of equal inconvenience to me asking her for a kidney. I’ve definitely walked into a fight. 

“Do you need help with the dishes?” I ask. It’s futile, but it’s something. 

“Help? No. But, it would have been nice if they were already done when I got home…” She says the last part under her breath. 

Got it. 

“I’m sorry, babe,” I say, “Why don’t you go relax? I’ll put the rest in the dishwasher.”  

She lets out a single, high-pitched laugh at this. I know this laugh. It’s the laugh she uses when I’m so wrong about something, it’s almost funny. Almost. 

“Relax?” She says. Her tone is not as light as before. “How can I? When I still have dinner to make? And then laundry to fold? And then a paper to write? You know, for the Master’s degree I’m getting while working full-time?” 

Her voice is getting dangerously shrill. She’s stressed, I get it. How could I forget? She’s always reminding me. 

 “Okay, I’m sorry,” I admit. “I should have done the dishes. And don’t worry about dinner, okay? I’ll just make myself a sandwich or something.” I shrug, trying to keep my demeanor casual in hopes that she’ll mimic it. 

She doesn’t. She drops the bowl in the sink so dramatically that I have to check if it shattered. Her eyes are ablaze, slicing through my very core, while her mouth hangs open. She looks at once furious and hurt. 

“Princess…” I say, resorting to pet names to soften her.

She snorts. 

“Princess? You mean ‘Cinderella’?” 

I have to stifle a laugh. She’s quick, I’ll give her that. But it’s not the time. 

“You know, Brian,” she starts before I can counter. “It’s times like these when I wonder if this is what the rest of my life will be like. I mean, really. Is this what I want? Is this what anyone wants?” 

Her eyes dart to the jewelry dish above the sink where her engagement ring is sitting. It’s quick, but I can’t miss it. I feel my grip tighten around my glass. It shouldn’t phase me anymore, but it does. Anytime I do something wrong- no matter how insignificant- she suddenly wants to give the ring back. The ring that she was all too happy to receive, I might add. 

“Oh, come on, Katie,” My voice sounds like an eye roll. “What? You’re going to leave me over this? The dishes?” 

Of course, I know that she won’t. Last week we had the same fight about changing the sheets. The week before it was about taking out the trash. This is just how she gets about chores sometimes. I try not to let it get to me. But since she started school, it’s felt a bit more like I’m walking through a minefield. I’m bound to step on something. I’m bound to blow up. 

“No, Brian. I am not going to leave you over the dishes.” 

Her eyes have softened. She suddenly looks so tired. Fragile, even. 

She turns back to the sink and picks up the bowl. She is quiet while she inspects for any dents from its crash in the sink. I take her silence for regret over her outburst. She probably feels bad for taking her stress out on me. I don’t entirely blame her, though. She’s under a lot of pressure. I can’t say for sure, but I might feel the same way if I was her. I loosen my grip on the glass. 

“Listen,” I say, rubbing her back. “The next time you want help with the dishes, let me know. All you gotta do is ask.” 

I feel her stiffen for a moment. A pause, as if she’s thought of another cutting remark to hurl my way. Instead, she picks up a dirty plate and begins scrubbing away once again. She must still be frustrated but I take that as a sign that our fight is over.

“And, hey, look,” I say, adding a new hint of positivity in my voice. “That bowl is pretty much sparkling. You’re so much better at cleaning the dishes than I am anyway!” 

I muster a wide smile, but she only acknowledges me with a quick nod. She doesn’t take well to compliments after a fight. I think she really has trouble calming down when she gets hung up on something. But I hope she remembers it later, my words of appreciation, before she decides to I’ve done something else wrong.