Doing the dishes

There’s comfort in soap and water. She thinks, leaning on one leg, her unwashed hair tied up in a bun, her wedding ring forgotten somewhere else in the house. There’s baby poo on her shirt. He’s a asleep. She smiles to herself. She has not heard from her husband in a month. She scrubs. She picks on a piece of dirt stuck on a mug that’s too stubborn to go away. She pours liquid soap and water all over the plates watching them lather up in blank loneliness. Her baby cries. And I haven’t heard from him in a month.


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