Sara stood over the kitchen sink and stared at the greasy pile stacked haphazardly in front of her. He had done it again. Bill never washed anything. He always left them for her.
She picked up the cereal bowl, encrusted with dried Froot Loops, and turned toward the Formica table along the wall. Bread crumbs and a smear of orange marmalade decorated his side, a crumbled paper napkin on the floor next to his chair. Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly. If she opened them again, she would throw the bowl through the window. Turning, she reached for the counter and placed the filthy bowl back on the counter. There was no familiar clink as it hit the sponge next to the drainer.
Without opening her eyes, she shuffled out of the kitchen into the living room. Once she was sure the sight and smells of the kitchen were behind her, she lifted one eyelid and saw the window overlooking the front porch. Bob was there, hanging on the curtain. Her Bob. Her other eye opened and she smiled. She loved Bob. He never left her dirty dishes or Read more