[va] the dishes.

[alkaline]

:3
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I am scraping the leftover, unsalvageable scraps off my dinner plate into the depths of the garbage bin, nestled neatly and quietly under the counter, hidden behind the cabinet door. Some of the food sticks, not yet ready to depart from the pristine, pearly porcelain plate. The only sound in the kitchen is of my metal fork, slightly water-stained and rusted at the handle, against the scratched plate. It's meticulous, tedious work, but I revel in the simplicity it somehow offers. More food, the airy crumbs, and crunchy brittle pieces sweep off the plate and make soft thuds as they land in the trash bag. The bag rustles faintly as more weight is slowly added to it.

I can smell the amalgamation of past meals wafting up, battling against the artificial perfume of the patented trash bag. Curry chicken. Microwaved egg rolls. Fritos. Empanadas. Cherry tomatoes from Wednesday's salad. Burnt cookies. Stale muffin. Expired ricotta cheese. Spoilt bananas. A few crumb-filled bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. An instant breakfast milkshake package. An empty lactose-free milk carton, half-gallon. 2%. Even when my plate is cleared, I remain standing at my post, peering down into the past week's contents. Beyond the garbage bin is the fire extinguisher, hidden in the shadows of the corner of the cabinet. It collects dust. I am glad that my fire detector has only ever gone off when I've burnt my baked goods or Friday night's dish.

Turning away from the bin, I begin washing the plate under the scorchingly hot water pouring from the faucet, burning away any sign that food had resided on the dinnerware moments ago. The task is finished quickly, and I repeat the process with my fork. Then both dishes go into the washer, which isn't full. Hasn't been in some time, but it will have to run regardless because I am running out of clean plates to use.

With the faucet off and the fork no longer scraping, it's eerily silent bar the buzzing hymn coming from the lights above, washing out every detail in the kitchen into a headache-inducing array of brightness. I sigh and lean on the counter, avoiding the sharp corners should they dig uncomfortably into my hips. The sun is setting, as it tends to do earlier and earlier with each passing cold day. The yard is swathed in purple shadows and highlights of scarlet sunlight, and the occasional mourning dove flits across the slightly clouded sky, perching from rooftop to rooftop. Somebody's dog barks in the distance and another one answers with desolate baying. Somewhere on the interstate, a car horn blares and an engine revs up in the way only pretentious cars could.

The not-wooden floors creak and shift, tap-tapping under the weight of my feet as I stride from the counter to the sofa. A sharp gale blows, and it reminds me that I have to shut the screen door. I turn back and embark on my shuffling journey, slippers skidding through silent air. There's a brief pause by the sliding door as I look out at the neighbor's house. Their lights are on, and a quick glance through their windows shows that their TV is on. The sun continues to crawl its lonesome journey across the sky, inching closer to its temporary death. Abrupt noise alights my environment as I pull the backdoor shut, flipping the latch in place and drawing the dusty curtains closed. I fiddle with the blinds on the nearby window until nobody can look into my home.

I hope it rains tonight.