Tea Time

They’d needed milk, and bananas. Milk badly. She always needs a splash for her tea. 

I’ll go, she’d insisted. 

Now, on the way home, she hoists two over-filled plastic bags down their street. When she feels her back hunching, she stops at a stone wall to rearrange the load. Counts steps to the end of the last two blocks, lowers the bags and rubs the reddened palms of her hands. A woman with a too small dog passes on her left.

Back home, when she has to stack last night’s dishes into the dishwasher for space on the counter, she slams the door shut. Pulls the bags up. Milk, blueberries, that so heavy cabbage. The two jars of pesto on sale. 

Did you get spaghetti? 

Yup. 

He half stands up looking.

Aren’t you afraid the ice-cream will melt?

I can’t put all this stuff away yet. This refrigerator is filthy.

We stayed up too late last night. 

I know.  

Don’t you want to sit down? 

I’ve got to do this. 

He goes back to his podcast. She pushes bags around in the freezer and stashes the now soft ice cream. Soaps up a rag and starts scrubbing the crud off shelves on the refrigerator door. Rings of ketchup. Sticky maple syrup.

The lettuce weeping in the vegetable bin makes her wince. So do the soft ends of the cucumbers. She snaps her wrist as she pitches them into the trash. 

I never thought I would be expressing thanks to a turnip, she shouts into the living room. 

She runs water over two sprouted, but still firm ones and sets them aside. 

What are you up to? He’s laughing.

She’s not listening.

Mustard. Three bottles! she shouts. You are not allowed to buy another bottle of mustard. 

Are you hearing? 

And Worcestershire. She balances one bottle on top of the other one to decant them, and while watching the brown sauce trickle from one to the other, puts the water on to boil for her tea.

I don’t even like Worcestershire sauce, she thinks. 

Looks in at him sitting in his chair.

Drains both bottles and tosses them. 

After she pours the tea water into her mug, she separates out the wilted spring onions, and sets them aside with the carrots, still crisp in the middle.

Half-full containers fill the sink. She empties them. Carnage. The disposal whirs. She bends over again into the fridge and gathers onion skins from the bottom of the drawer. 

How do we keep letting this happen?  She sniffs chili from a time she can’t remember, and without missing a beat, throws the switch again. In goes left-over chicken and the dregs of cottage cheese gone bad.

I guess you decided you don’t like tomato quinoa salad? 

His ear-pods are in. 

She is about to mention what it cost when she remembers who’d brought it home. 

After she puts back the drawers she’d yanked and scrubbed out, she steps back and sares at the space she’s made on the counter. The turnips sit by the backsplash where she left them. Beside them, carrots and green onions. The celery sits beside the cutting board. She reaches for it, picks up a knife and starts chopping. Carrots get their rubbery ends cut off. Into a pot go some parsley sprigs and diced potatoes. 

While stirring the soup, she remembers her tea, takes a sip and puts the mug in to nuke. 

She is just taking it out of the microwave when she hears

Something smells good!

Doesn’t it?

Now she opens the refrigerator and reaches for that splash of milk.