JAY

A sink too full. Two towels. A dish rack leaning slightly to one side beneath the weight of bowls neatly arranged by size, though nobody asked for order. Nobody needed to. Water flowing warm over every porcelain. Its pour steady enough to fill the silence without breaking it. Soap suds gathered at the base of narrow wrists, slipping in pale lines toward the elbow before disappearing underneath a pushed sleeve. One plate passed. Then another. Each accepted without looking. Dried. Stacked. Returned to exactly where it belonged. It all arrived too easily, a rhythm instilled and just familiar in every beat. Wash. Pass. Dry. A choreography built somewhere quieter than memory, old enough to survive resentment (anger and shame), recognized enough to make distance feel briefly artificial.

Almost domestic.

Well, almost.

Knife's blade remained near the cutting board, handle angled away. Leftover scallions scattered beside it in uneven pieces, some too thick, some barely cut at all. Steel moved beneath small dainty fingers, grip rising higher than it should, thumb pressing where the blade narrowed toward the handle. A breach of safety protocol. Irritation surfaced before thought could stop it. Old. Instinctive. Not anger. Something that's worse... Softer. One that's tucked beneath shared history now being dragged quietly back into the present, concern still wore the same face it always had.