She's away. He peruses the scene as he brings the now empty cereal bowl to the counter by the sink and puts it down. She'll be home in less than an hour maybe. She's not his mom, but sometimes ... well, you know, these things loom. Memories hover. It's like whether she knows it or not there's this role that she steps into and it can't be helped. It can't be changed.
As he clears the sink and fills it with hot water he tells himself that it's not just a cliche, it's a function. It's good to do this, more than just to do it for her, but to do it for the house, for the economy of the house. The pans and the soaking fryer, the zester, the knives turn the water to a deep-brown slurry by the time he's done.
She drives up as he finishes. Quick, so as not to be found out, he drains the sink, rinses it clean of the detritus of the deed, dries his hands and sits down in front of his notebook. He picks up his pen and writes, "She's away."
The ride in: Temp -9'C Wind SE 12 ks
The ride home: Temp -9'C Wind SE 12 ks
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