Under the Ruckus
By Alex Abreu
The dishwasher was installed under the window and made a sound that dampened everything so he turned it on when he was alone. It ran beside the sink and he sat at the kitchen table in the empty house. The machine gurgled and hummed. He could hear the water sloshing around inside. Through the window he could hear the street. Cars drove by and people spoke faintly. He heard a slapping sound that may have been the gate leading up to the house or a car door across the street. It was hard to tell exactly over the noise of the machine.
Then he heard a familiar hum join the sound of the dishwasher. It would have to be the garage door opening up. She was home already. He looked at the clock. It was early. He looked around at the state of the kitchen and it was full of his mess. He had made spaghetti for lunch and the pot was still on the stove. He had finished off the bread and the empty plastic bag was still on the counter. He felt obliged to clean it all up. He looked down at himself wearing just sweatpants. There is something unforgivable about meeting someone who has been out for the day with sweatpants.
He decided to dress in something but he would leave the mess in the kitchen. It was his mess and he would clean it up in his own time. He got up. In the bedroom he pulled on a pair of more productive pants. Then he slid a shirt on to go with it. Maybe he had been out today. In the mirror his hair was tangled and he matted it with his hands but it wasn’t any good. He would look like a mess when she came in and she would see him. Then he would feel like a mess.
He went back to his chair at the table. The dishwasher clacked and switched gears. The roar increased. The hum from the garage door had stopped but he didn’t hear the door of the car. He couldn’t hear anything but the washer. He imagined her sitting in the parked car with the light from the street coming in behind her, reaching across to gather a coat and a purse from the passenger seat. He imagined her coming into the house. He imagined her speaking. She would ruin the calm of the house by speaking. The day would have to enter another phase, a phase with two people instead of just one. A phase that included all the things two people do with each other, conversing and moving around each other, tolerating each other. He loved her but he tolerated her.
He heard the car door slam. He imagined her out and headed into the house. The washing machine hissed. He looked to the stove and thought about his mess again. She would bring it up when she saw it, exhausting as that was. She would say something about it and it would take all the breath out of him like someone standing on his chest. He slid out of his chair. He would be cleaning it as she came in. With his new industrious pants on she’d never know he had been inside all day. She wouldn’t say anything then.
He cleaned the pot and threw out the wrappers. He wiped down the counter and she still hadn’t come in. He sat down again at the kitchen table and the dishwasher vibrated softly. He heard two more doors slam shut. Company maybe? It was a good thing he had dressed. He heard murmurs from the street through the window and he got a clear picture in his mind of the group of them standing together, making gentle conversation in the garage. He tugged at his shirt and matted his hair down again. He didn’t want to embarrass her. Then he thought it would be nice to have some people in the house. He had done nothing all day. It was an inconvenience before but since he was dressed already it might be nice. They could all make a meal together and talk around the table while they ate it. Maybe they had brought food. In that case he would make drinks. Then they would eat and drink together and it wouldn’t matter what he had done with the rest of his day. The sun could set to hell because they would be having a party, the kind of party he liked anyway, the intimate kind. He was glad he had cleaned the kitchen. She would be glad the house was clean when she brought company over.
He sat longer but she didn’t come inside. Abruptly the washer stopped its cycle and what had been in the background came into the foreground again. Silence. Two women passed on the street; he heard them talking about balloons. He got up and went down to the garage but when he opened the door there was no car, it was just dark and cold. So he went back to the kitchen but he was in a new mood now. The washer was still dripping a little, but quietly.
THE END
Author Bio: Alexander Abreu is a Californian writer of fiction and essays. He has a B.A. in creative writing from the University of California, Riverside. He is the author of the urban fiction blog, Dukeport, on Medium.com. He is currently living and (frequently enough) working in San Francisco.