was her apartment like? Elegant? Shabby? Simplythrown together? Did he know which drawer the spoons were in, and where she kept her towels?)
While I made coffee, the smell filling the kitchen, drifting up the stairs—he said he loved that smell—and prepared the breakfast and brought in the morning paper, he was upstairs showering, shaving, I could hear the running water, buzz of razor, sometimes he even sang. Loudly, so that I could hear, even from a distance he could make me laugh, silly songs, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” from the shower. Banging of drawers, quick steps around the bedroom, I could follow his progress from below, see his stripped slim body adding the layers of clothes, sitting on the bed to pull on socks.
When I heard the clipped steps that meant his shoes were on, I slid the eggs and grease-drained bacon onto his plate, and buttered the toast. There was orange juice already on the table. I poured coffee for myself when he sat down. He shook out his serviette, ate his breakfast, and glanced through the paper. He read some of the stories out to me, the funny or dangerous ones, or the simply amazing. “How can people be like that?” we said, over some story of a parent charged with beating a child. Or “Christ, the transit drivers are going out on strike, the traffic jams will be incredible.” Sometimes he read to himself, but if he laughed or grunted and I said, “What? What is it?” he’d read it aloud.
It was a nice beginning to the day. I look back and it was just—nice.
I would see the clock, that white daisy with the yellow centre, yellow hands, moving the minutes to when he would leave. There was so much to be done. He smiled and kissed me and said, “Bye, see you later,” and I said, “Have a good day,” and stood at the door to wave. I had a small superstition: thatif I failed to wave and watch him leave, it would be an unlucky day for both of us.
Methodically, then, my own time got under way. Clearing the breakfast dishes, washing and drying them, wiping the table, the place mats, the counter, the sinks, putting away jams and bread. Sweeping the floor, moving chairs and table out of the way to do so; but that was only surface dirt, small things that might float. To get beneath, a sponge mopping every day, once a month stripped and freshly waxed, so that the kitchen floor was never anything but clean and gleaming.
These things are visible. It was also necessary to search out what might be hidden: make sure there were no crumbs lurking beneath or inside the toaster, and that its silver surface was wiped clear of smudges and distortions. Little bits and pieces of this and that may fall between the counter and the stove: one must not miss the slim alleyways of the house.
Could the hidden spot have been behind the stove, perhaps? Or somewhere behind the fridge? There are so many nooks and crannies where it might be, if I can just put my finger on it.
It only takes a little time for some piece of dirt to tunnel its way to the roots of a carpet. So I vacuumed part of the house each day, so that all of it was done twice a week at least. I know most people do not do that, but don’t their carpets rot?
I brushed any dust from table lamps, and then held them up while I polished the wood beneath; used a damp cloth to wipe the glass surface of the coffee table, where there might be Harry’s fingerprints, or marks from his heels if he’d put his feet up the night before. Another damp cloth for the white windowsills and the white wood between the panes of glass. And once a week, the panes of glass themselves.
It’s amazing how quickly things get dirty even when you try so hard to keep them clean. How filthy they must get when no one pays attention.
The table in the dining room all polished, down on my hands and knees to get at the intricate woodwork underneath, the base and legs. And all around the china hutch. Once a month, all the good dishes came out of the hutch to be washed and
While I made coffee, the smell filling the kitchen, drifting up the stairs—he said he loved that smell—and prepared the breakfast and brought in the morning paper, he was upstairs showering, shaving, I could hear the running water, buzz of razor, sometimes he even sang. Loudly, so that I could hear, even from a distance he could make me laugh, silly songs, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” from the shower. Banging of drawers, quick steps around the bedroom, I could follow his progress from below, see his stripped slim body adding the layers of clothes, sitting on the bed to pull on socks.
When I heard the clipped steps that meant his shoes were on, I slid the eggs and grease-drained bacon onto his plate, and buttered the toast. There was orange juice already on the table. I poured coffee for myself when he sat down. He shook out his serviette, ate his breakfast, and glanced through the paper. He read some of the stories out to me, the funny or dangerous ones, or the simply amazing. “How can people be like that?” we said, over some story of a parent charged with beating a child. Or “Christ, the transit drivers are going out on strike, the traffic jams will be incredible.” Sometimes he read to himself, but if he laughed or grunted and I said, “What? What is it?” he’d read it aloud.
It was a nice beginning to the day. I look back and it was just—nice.
I would see the clock, that white daisy with the yellow centre, yellow hands, moving the minutes to when he would leave. There was so much to be done. He smiled and kissed me and said, “Bye, see you later,” and I said, “Have a good day,” and stood at the door to wave. I had a small superstition: thatif I failed to wave and watch him leave, it would be an unlucky day for both of us.
Methodically, then, my own time got under way. Clearing the breakfast dishes, washing and drying them, wiping the table, the place mats, the counter, the sinks, putting away jams and bread. Sweeping the floor, moving chairs and table out of the way to do so; but that was only surface dirt, small things that might float. To get beneath, a sponge mopping every day, once a month stripped and freshly waxed, so that the kitchen floor was never anything but clean and gleaming.
These things are visible. It was also necessary to search out what might be hidden: make sure there were no crumbs lurking beneath or inside the toaster, and that its silver surface was wiped clear of smudges and distortions. Little bits and pieces of this and that may fall between the counter and the stove: one must not miss the slim alleyways of the house.
Could the hidden spot have been behind the stove, perhaps? Or somewhere behind the fridge? There are so many nooks and crannies where it might be, if I can just put my finger on it.
It only takes a little time for some piece of dirt to tunnel its way to the roots of a carpet. So I vacuumed part of the house each day, so that all of it was done twice a week at least. I know most people do not do that, but don’t their carpets rot?
I brushed any dust from table lamps, and then held them up while I polished the wood beneath; used a damp cloth to wipe the glass surface of the coffee table, where there might be Harry’s fingerprints, or marks from his heels if he’d put his feet up the night before. Another damp cloth for the white windowsills and the white wood between the panes of glass. And once a week, the panes of glass themselves.
It’s amazing how quickly things get dirty even when you try so hard to keep them clean. How filthy they must get when no one pays attention.
The table in the dining room all polished, down on my hands and knees to get at the intricate woodwork underneath, the base and legs. And all around the china hutch. Once a month, all the good dishes came out of the hutch to be washed and
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