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Doing Dishes

... by Katherine English

It's the middle of the night.

I hear him slumbering restlessly beside me as I stare unblinking at the clock near the bed. It's 3 a.m., but I should know that without looking. I seem to have a knack for that, knowing the time that is...the hour...the minute...the second.

I can't sleep. Why don't I have a knack for THAT? There are things that I could be doing, mundane chores that might lull me into the repose I crave. They call to me, and I rise to meet them.

Quietly, I pull on the panties that lay discarded on the floor at my feet, and cover my body with the soft, clinging touch of my aging nightshirt. It embraces my skin so lovingly after all these years...so gently.

I hear the soft plop of my bare feet against the polished wooden floors of the living room, across the area rug, on to the vinyl tile of the kitchen, and I stare at the few supper dishes still waiting for my touch in the kitchen sink.

...

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