Kev watches the pen move.
“Don’t make that sound poetic.”
“I won’t.”
He studies me for a moment.
“Can I quote you?” I finally ask.
“No.”
“Anonymously?”
“No.”
Then he is gone.
I sit very still for a second, because something about the brief exchange has stayed with me.
It’s people.
I write it at the top of a fresh page.
Then I underline it.
Then I look at the spoon in the coffee ring again.
For approximately thirty seconds, I resist.
Then I stand.
Cleaning someone else’s kitchen without invitation is, I know, socially risky. It suggests judgement, interference, possibly unresolved childhood issues. I am aware of this. I am not proud.
But there are dishes by the sink, crumbs near the toaster, three mugs that could be washed in under a minute, and a cupboard door open at an angle that is doing something unpleasant to the corner of my eye.
Also, Pippa is in a meeting, and I am still thinking about a green dress I saw for less than five minutes.
I rinse the spoon.
That seems harmless.
Then I wipe the counter, because the cloth is right there.
Then I wash the mugs, because leaving them once the sink is already wet would be inefficient.
Then I dry them, because I am not an animal.
By the time I realise I have entered a state of mild domestic fugue, I have cleaned the counter, straightened the leaflets, returned the stapler to the edge of the pile rather than the middle, closed two cupboard doors, discovered that the tea bags do in fact have a designated place, and removed something from the microwave that may once have been soup.
I do not reorganise the cupboards.
That would be too much.
I do look inside one.
Briefly.
There are mugs on three shelves in no recognisable pattern. Large ones mixed with small ones. Station mugs mixed with novelty mugs. One mug that says WORLD’SOKAYEST UNCLE, which raises several questions and answers none of them.
