A voice in my past, one I have muffled so much, it is now unidentifiable, complained about how much soap I used per dish.
I would fill the old plastic bowl halfway with water, and almost halfway with detergent. Then, my hands would disturb the mixture until there were more suds than water.
Now, there is a sink in front of me, but the single plate I hold under the steady flow of the tap is almost as lathered as that old bowl used to be.
It’s something about the softness and the elusiveness of the suds that makes playing with them comforting to me. It’s why even though my feet hurt from carrying me through a long day, I don’t mind inconveniencing them some more to do the dinner dishes.
My ears are tuned to the television in the parlour. I cannot make out the words—nor can the person seated in front of it—but I can tell it is still on. It would stay on until the tap in front of me goes quiet for the night.
As I slide the rinsed plate into the plastic rack, a pair of feet walk into the kitchen.
”Ara, I’ve gone in for the night. Don’t forget to lock the door before going to bed. Goodnight.”
The same words she’d said to me on the first day I resumed for work with my bag of clothes and an apron of naivety tied around my waist.
That night, I’d remembered to lock the kitchen door. But I still wonder if that was the door she’d meant then. If that is the door she means now.
”Goodnight, ma.”
When she reaches her room and shuts the door, I hear it because the walls of this house are spouses that do not keep secrets from each other.
That single thud concludes the first part of the day and begins the next. It is automatic.
I run the last plate under the tap. The tv goes quiet. I pick up the mop. The parlour lights fall asleep. I finish mopping, switch off the kitchen lights, and I don’t forget to lock the door.
As I walk past the parlour, I pretend I cannot see the figure sprawled on the sofa. Because on that first day, I’d actually not seen him. So now, I pretend to keep the show alive.
Just like the woman pretends she’s asleep. I know she hears. She knows the routine as well as I do.
When I go into my room, I slip out of my skin, shower, and slide into the person I become in the second half of the day.
Today, she wears a pink slip dress that grazes her bum. She puts out the lights and props her body invitingly when she lies down. And when the door opens, she has a wry smile on her face.
His hands are entitled. They squeeze, and knead, and pinch. His body is heavier than it was the first time.
When I sink my teeth into his neck, I am me. When I slide my hand down his groin, I am her.
He plunges and takes; me, her.
The first time, my nerves had tightened, my body had braced, and pain had stabbed through me regardless. Now, I take his hand in the dark, guide it to that spot right above where we are both now joined, and I ensure I get as much pleasure as he does.
There are no tears, no sniffles. There is no anger, no hate. But there is also no love, no softness. There is nothing. Nothing but pleasure.
When he slumps on top of me, my day is officially over. He gets up after a few seconds. My phone screen lights up with the alert that is also a part of the routine. He still pretends it is shut up money. Even though his wife can hear his grunts through the gossiping walls.
In the morning, I would serve her breakfast and call her ma, even though I know she sees the glow that pleasure has stamped all over me through the night.
He would either be gone before she comes down for breakfast, or he would eat with her, looking through me as I set down the jug of juice, or lift the empty pitcher of water.
The day would go the way it should, and night would come again, because that is the way of the world. Of our world.
Read about the Author Henrietta Lehi
