We never leave dishes unwashed in the kitchen. It’s something that we have incorporated into our routines. Dirty dishes scream if left unattended. We eat, we wash.
We do it together most of the time. He washes, I dry. I wash, he dries. Sometimes when we’ve had something greasy, he let’s me off. I detest thick grease on plates, it makes me squeamish. The smell of water cascading over those yellowish puddles is worse than feeling guilty for letting him do all the work. I return the favor when Australia is playing against England.
And if neither of us feels like washing right after eating, we play dish rag tag. It’s a lot like Pass the Pillow, the punishment is just something we don’t want to do at that moment. Punishments are mean that way.
I sometimes think of spending my zippy purse money on a dish-washer. Or a human dish-washer.
Some days when we don’t feel like doing kitchen duty, we eat out. We pretend to be a couple very much in love, out for a night of good food and music. On the table in our go-to Thai restaurant, we look into each others’ eyes and let out an occasional sigh. Sweet relief, there’ll be no dishes to do tonight.