The Tale of the Defiant Dishes: Three Days of Trials and Patience
John was washing the dishes. For three days he had endured, yet not a single plate or cup was clean. Returning from work, he didnt even bother to change. He tied on an apron and set to work. He fancied making a proper soup, too, for he had forgotten what a real one tasted like
The food scraps clung stubbornly to the plates, demanding a good soak. There were at least a dozen coffee mugs. Couldnt she have washed just one herself? A bitter lump rose in his throat. He was hungry, but the fridge held only a few cucumbers and an empty shelf. Suddenly, the scent of Roses baking drifted into his mind. Their home had always smelled of fresh cakes and pies, for his wife adored cooking. Shed return from work, and the kitchen would already hum with the warmth of cinnamon or vanilla. The mixer would whir, the oven glow
Now, John remembered her fondly. Back then, he had thought she saw nothing beyond the kitchen and the childrenher job hardly counted. Always washing, scrubbing windows, beating the rugs. And come summer, the kitchen turned into a proper canning factory. John could barely keep up carrying jars down to the cellar.
One evening, he came home to find Rose, as usual, stirring something on the stove, perched on the edge of the tablethat bad habit of herspeeling apples while some concert played on the telly.
“I want a divorce,” John said, eerily calm, not even greeting her.
Rose flinched but didnt turn.
“Theres another woman,” he explained. “I love her, and I cant deceive you any longer.”
Rose set down the knife, slowly turning to face him, her cheeks flushed from the steamand the news. Quietly, obediently, she replied:
“Take a slice of cake, then. Well never finish it all.”
Of course, John didnt take a slice, though hed always loved her walnut and raisin cake He gathered the bare essentials and left for the woman who was nothing like Rose. She never wore jeans, only short skirts and dresses. Never flats, only high heels. She could announce a trip to the salon as if it were a board meeting, and the world had to wait.
Rose never visited salons. She didnt linger in shops or markets. If she needed something, she made a list, fetched it, and returned swiftly. She didnt read glossy magazines, drink coffee, dye her hair, or bother with exercise. Yet she was always lovelytrim, neat, youthful. In slim jeans and short blouses, her hair in a simple braid, she looked like a schoolgirl.
John had wanted a real woman by his side. So he found himself Evelyn. Now he ironed his own shirts, cooked his meals, scrubbed his dishes. And at night, he dreamed of Roses cakes and pastries. The dreams smelled of vanilla, and in them, her laughter still rang
With the kitchen finally in order, John walked into the sitting room. Evelyn lounged elegantly on the sofa, propped on her elbows. A magazine lay before her, and three coffee cups cluttered the side table.
“Youre such a darling, my little hare. What would I do without you?” she trilled, stretching her arms toward him. “Ive just come from my manicure. Im exhausted! Looklovely nails, arent they? Mine, of course. Come here, my sweet, let me hug you”
A wave of irritation gripped John. “Must be the hunger,” he thought, retreating to the kitchen to peel potatoes.
