There’s a new compromise manifesting itself on our calendar. An unspectacular calendar, hastily nailed to the cramped hallway leading to the kitchen. This is no accident. For months, 307 Kensington has teetered between tidy and smelly, with poorly rinsed dishes playing the part of swing voter. The status quo has apparently become unacceptable.
A new system has developed, one of accountability and passive aggression. A golden marker cut an “S” below the 2, the 6, the 11. One “I” was scribbled (what a joy to have one’s pronoun match his initial), in crayon, on yesterday’s 13. On a promise and a prayer, of motivation.
And yet, the sink remains full.
The pad is comfortably bohemian for me, and overpriced for Sarah. Circumstances that I’m sure we’ll cover, in time, brought me to buying into this hardwood and stucco stock. The IPO was reasonable, each share costing but a single chore. Gutters. Snow shoveler. Unpaid personal chef. Interior designer and supplier. Date night outfit consultations. Unreciprocated sexual favors, the kind you don’t always want to talk about the next morning. Buying into Christmas, stuffed stockings and all, despite a simmering resentment of gentiles. Dishes.
Few agreements between friends are expected to follow the contract to the letter. This was no different. And though bits of the bargain were shrugged off, the thought’s what counts. Well, that and appreciable signs of effort.
Many of our hopes and dreams were coming to fruition. The place looked great! The food inspired, and outfits admired. Cleaning was done with paper towels and distraction. And we were having a mild, unprecipatous winter.
But oh, the smelliness. Amateur Petri dishes littered the counter, hid behind the stove. And the smoking inside, “It just has to stop!” Even I, never particularly olfactorily sensitive, had to admit there was a certain wrinkle to nose upon walking past the foyer.