Dirty Spoons

 He sat on the edge of the couch. He could hear the urgent thump thump thump of his neighbor upstairs as she chased her son across the floor. The hockey game on the television bored him.

“I need to go to the grocery store, “ he thought as he collected his keys off the kitchen counter.

One lap around the perimeter of the store was 102 steps. He was about to count the steps up and down each aisle when he remembered why he had left the couch and come to store in the first place.

“I need dish soap, “ he reminded himself silently as he walked off to locate the proper aisle.

Perusing his choices, he heard footsteps behind him, but ignored them. Why did there have to be so many choices? Did clean plates really need to be lemon fresh, and if so, why did that cost more? Shouldn't clean be enough? All he wanted were clean plates ready to be sullied anew with delicious concoctions. That seemed like enough to him. There were too many choices. Shouldn't clean be enough?

A man cleared his throat behind him. He turned to look and saw that a female police officer was standing behind a man wearing a button down shirt with the store's logo embroidered on the chest, right above the heart. The man looked nervous. The officer wore no expression.

“Excuse me sir, “ said the man in the button down shirt, “Um, we need to close, and, uh, you've been standing here quite a while. We couldn't get your attention, “ he explained.

“Everything ok sir” asked the officer.

“I just need dish soap, “ he replied. Grabbing a package without looking he walked to the self checkout as the man and officer followed behind him. After paying and making his way to the parking lot, the officer stopped him.

“Is everything ok sir?' she asked, “You didn't respond for a very long time. You had them a little worried.”

“Yeah, I'm good, “ he replied and walked to the only vehicle waiting in the lot, his.

Dear Jordan,

I sat down to write you a song. I have the perfect tune, but I can't get the words to match what I really want to say. I remember how you always seemed to know what it was that I meant, even when I couldn't find the right words. I wonder if you know, even now, what I'm trying to tell you. Help me? Dish soap is expensive.

I miss you.

He left the letter unsigned. She would know who sent it. The missive was slipped neatly into an envelope and tucked into his jacket pocket. The bright sunshine convinced him to walk so he left his backdoor unlocked and forayed into the crisp fall afternoon.

Purposefully striding to deliver his letter, he neglected to notice that his phone was announcing an incoming text message. Even more, having left from his back door, he had avoided his sister standing at the front of his building, a bag of groceries at her feet and cell phone in her hands. Her foot tapped in annoyance at having to wait after having told him she would be visiting on her way home from work.

There are 168 hours in a week and it seemed like he spent most of them in silence, deflecting invitations. His sister reminded him of as much as she stomped about his kitchen, putting away groceries and depositing dirty dishes into a sink overflowing.

“What the fuck, “ she muttered under her breath as he sat, admonished, in his dining alcove and watched her work. A cold beer in one hand, his head resting against the balled up fist of the other, he wished that she would leave.

“I'm not going to help you anymore, if you refuse to help your self, “ she chastised him. She had threatened this before.

“I know,” he replied, “I'm sorry.“

Dear Jordan,

I made chicken the way you like it. It wasn't the same without you. I smiled when I remembered the time you spilled the wine. There's still a stain on the floor. I know it won't matter, but, I'll say it anyway.....

Hurry home.

He had fallen out of the habit, most called it a necessity during a Midwestern winter, of wearing a coat. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way along the well-worn path to deliver his weekly letter. Arriving at the place, he deposited the letter with the rest of the mail and, before turning to go, lingered with a whispered, “I love you.”

On his way back to his cluttered apartment (his sister had made good on her threat) a grizzled old man in a red wool cap addressed him with an, “Ain't you cold?' that was ignored as a matter of course. He made a dinner of cold chicken and potato chips after arriving home. Wiping chicken grease on his soiled khakis, he fought with the remote control to turn on the television before giving up and choosing to sit in silence. He hoped he would remember to purchase batteries the next time he was out. What he neglected to remember, however, was that the cable bill remained unpaid and the television would provide no respite from the silence no matter how many batteries he purchased.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I hate it when you do that, “ she complained.

“Um, what did I do? “ he answered.

“You put the spoons in the dishwasher upside down, “ she explained, “And now they need to be washed again.”

“Oh, “ was all he said.

“See. You think it's not a big deal. But it is, “ she continued, “Guess who gets to wash them?”

“Is it me? “ he asked with a smirk.

“Don't be a dick, “ she answered.

“They're just spoons, “ he replied defensively.

“Yup, “ was all she said as she plucked spoons out of the washer basket and dropped them noisily into the sink. She started to fill it with hot water but changed her mind. “Fuck it. I'm going for a run. “

“Sweetie, they're just spoons. I'll do it, “ he said.

“If you do, I'm only gonna be more pissed, “ her running shoes were already on.

The door shut behind her and he stood in silence for a moment, unsure as to whether he should wash the spoons or not.

Dear Jordan,

My sister came back again today. She cleaned the entire apartment. It looks really nice and smells better too. I'm sorry I let it get as bad as it does. I know you wouldn't like it. I'll try to do better, ok?

I miss you.

The burgeoning springtime and the late-night rain had chased earthworms onto the walkway. There were a little over 2,000 paces to deliver his latest letter and he had begun by counting the segmented creepers but he was distracted by the rattle of empty beer cans in the open bed of a passing pickup truck. More rainclouds darkened the horizon and threatened to dampen his journey.

He dialed his sister, “Do you ever wash plastic spoons?”

“I throw them away.”

“Are they biodegradable?”

“Don’t think so. Why?”

“So, they just last forever after we throw them away?”

“This is why you called?”

“Yeah, “ he hung up without saying goodbye.

Later, reclined against the fabric of his couch cushions, he held two spoons in his hands, one plastic and one stainless steel. He studied them earnestly as if they might speak and break the silence he wore, the silence that had become his shield. He rose from the couch and walked the half dozen steps into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, and placed both spoons right side up in the silverware basket before seeking out his sketchpad and the leisure of the couch once again.

An obnoxious buzz announced a visitor at his door. He remained on the couch, doodling is his notebook. The unwanted guest was persistent, however, and the buzzing eventually lured him off the couch.

“Dude, get off your ass! I’m taking you to the Suru Pub, “ Dab announced as he bounded through his front door.

“Suru?“

“Hell yes. It’s time to get your ass outa this piece of shit apartment, drink some beers, and eat some chicken wings.”

He hesitated. This was unexpected.

“This isn’t optional, “ Dab crossed his arms.

He shuffled to front hallway closet, slid open the door, nudged his brown shoes from their cubby, and slipped them onto his feet. Reaching up, he snatched his ball cap from the top shelf, turned toward Dab and said, “Ok.”

The pub smelled like stale beer and fried food but had a small, yet dedicated, clientele. The two of them grabbed a table, ordered draft beers, and perused the chicken wing menus that were sticky with years of consistent use. Televisions were mounted on every wall and a combination of baseball, basketball, and hockey games were displayed on them. The place was pretty busy for a Wednesday evening.

“Gotta love hockey playoffs, “ said Dab, then looking around the room, “I wonder if I can get you some action tonight.”

“Seriously? “ he asked.

Their stout waitress returned with their beers, took their order, and was gone again.

“I wish you wouldn’t, “ he said, “Let’s just eat and watch the game.”

“Ok, whatever, “ said Dab while sipping his beer and scanning the room.

Chicken wings were delivered, eaten, cleared away and two more beers were brought for each of them before he excused himself to go to the restroom. After finishing he stopped to wash and splash cold water on his face. It wasn’t cold enough to be bracing but did make him feel a little better. He resolved to thank his friend and tell him it was time to go but he slipped into an alcohol-induced reverie about the last time he had made love to her.

Dab found him on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees next to the commode in the bathroom stall. Though he typically chose caustic sarcasm, Dab quietly said, “Dude, let’s just get you home.”

Looking up at Dab slowly he rose to his feet, wiped his hands on his jeans, and nodded his head in agreement. The ride home from Suru was silent. Dab steered the car carefully while he counted light posts on his side of the street. Above, a waning moon was partly obscured by low-lying clouds.

Dear Jordan,

There was always something about your laugh. There was no hiding your delight when you found something funny. I caught myself smiling at the thought of you laughing at those stupid TV shows you love so much. Remember how we would get all tangled up together on the couch?

I sure would love to hear you laugh again.

She had hated that he owned a gun. He kept it locked up even though he didn’t even own any bullets. That seemed to appease her. Thinking of the pistol had brought him to his bedroom. He lifted up his bed skirt, she had picked that stuff out, and fished under his bed until he found the locked box that hid the gun. Taking it out, he marveled at the heft of it in his hand, then, nodding at what he knew she would be thinking, he put it back in the box, locked it, and shoved it under the bed.

He saw her that night. It had been months since he had done so. At first her back was turned to him and he couldn’t see her face. Then, as though she could sense his eyes on her, she turned slowly until their eyes met. He took a step forward as did she. The smile on her face encouraged him and he took another step. Two more steps closed the distance between the two of them and he opened his arms for an embrace. At the last moment he noticed her left arm was bent at an odd angle above her elbow and that a trickle of blood escaped her right nostril. Her hair too, once his to play with absently, was matted with drying blood and the side of her face was deeply bruised. She raised her arms to accept his embrace but he was overtaken with revulsion and stepped back, a scream at his lips, and he was awake, sweating and sobbing her name. The dream had returned.

Dear Jordan,

Remembering how you looked that first day, wow. Wow! Even the memory takes my breath away. But, recalling how you looked after, you know, makes me ache for you....makes me want to take it all away. I still need you.

Did we ever use plastic spoons?

I love you.

He usually ran without effort. Running was one thing he didn't give up after he had lost her. It provided structure and sometimes fatigued him enough to allow him to capture desperately needed sleep. But, on this day as summer swelter arrived early in the morning, he struggled to find his pace. He pushed to no avail and ended his five miles feeling defeated rather than refreshed.

The smell of something rotting accosted him as he entered his apartment. He followed the noxious aroma to the dishwasher, and upon opening it, realized that he had not run the thing for weeks. He squeezed the detergent into the compartment and noticed, just as he was shutting the door, that a plastic spoon sat head up among the other silverware. Turning the dial and flipping the switch to heated dry he finished the task while wondering if he would need to run the washer twice to get rid of the offending smell. Maybe some lemon freshness was in order after all.

Running always made Jordan feel good. Yes, it was difficult. Yes, she seemed to sweat for an hour afterward. Running, though, helped even out her mood when Andy did something that annoyed her. “Spoons, “ she thought, “What a dumb ass.” Still, as she ran, she felt her mood shift from angry annoyance to regret. They had used those spoons to eat the strawberry pie he had brought home after work. She wondered if her period was imminent. She tended to be a little unreasonable at certain times of the month. Those spoons, however, were still dirty with dried on strawberry goo and and it sure as hell wasn't her fault. Even so, she resolved to treat him sweetly when she returned, even if she did make him sweat it out a little while longer. She smiled to herself at the thought of that and picked up her pace, hoping to catch him in the middle of washing the spoons despite her warning against it.

Jordan was introduced to him as they sat side by side at an acquaintance's wedding. They were holding hands by the end of the evening and though she had a ride, pretended to have missed it so she could have him drive her home. They laughed all the way back to the apartment they would share three months later. He kissed her on the doorstep, and though she had been dating someone, they were soon perceived as an inseparable couple by all of their friends.

It was this he thought of as he had dropped off his latest letter to Jordan during his lunch break. He usually walked but chose to drive on this occasion. The drive allowed him to spend a little extra time with her. However, shortly after arriving he remembered that he had left his briefcase at home, so he delivered his letter and left to run that errand.

After grabbing his briefcase and setting it by the front door he searched his refrigerator for a quick lunch. Spying a raspberry yogurt he grabbed it, turned to his cupboard to find a bowl, and finding no silverware in the drawer, opened the dishwasher Gasping with surprise, he noticed immediately that the heat of the drying cycle had cracked the plastic spoon. He never called work to tell them that he wouldn't be returning from lunch.

She never saw the pickup truck, a rattle of empty beer cans in its open bed warned her too late. It struck her squarely in the left side, snapping her arm awkwardly and knocking her cleanly out of her running shoes. Her head struck the asphalt first and she skidded unconsciously to a stop, half on the road and half off of it. The driver of the truck slowed for a moment but sped off. The identification tag laced into Jordan's shoe listed her contact information, but Andy's phone had been set to vibrate and was sitting in the living room while he washed spoons in the kitchen. She was buried on his birthday, wearing her engagement ring.

He typed his goodbye and hoped his sister wouldn't make too much fuss, he had left clear instructions on the coffee table in his living room. They wouldn't be missed. His apartment was in order, every bit of clutter straightened, bathrooms cleaned, dishwasher emptied. He put the cracked plastic spoon is his shirt pocket. He locked the front door out of habit on his way out.

He walked the mile to the cemetery, as he often did, with his eyes cast toward the sidewalk. Streetlights lit his way. Arriving at Jordan's resting place a dozen unopened and weather beaten envelopes leaned against her headstone. The envelope he laid there hours earlier seemed bright in comparison. He dropped to his knees next to the headstone and then leaned forward, placing his head where he imagined her head was. Lightening flashed, thunder pealed, and he closed his eyes to wait for the rain. Heavy drops splattered about him, then on him, beginning to soak his clothes. He stretched out and lay just as he remembered she was, and then, Jordan was with him.

His sister found him first and had made the important phone calls. Though the coroner could find no cause of death, “Broken heart, “ is what was whispered among those who knew. His sister agreed, though she had never told anyone that when she found him Jordan's engagement ring was in his tightly clasped right hand.