Spotchecking

Rachel "D" Winslow

I find myself under flourescent lighting as I walk into the kitchen, prodded by the distinct rummaging sounds in my ears which followed his retreat.

"Don't do them," I protested, feeling my spirits drop to slump bitterly in my stomach.

"Why?" His answer is aloof, as if what I'm saying doesn't register. "They need to get done."

You should have already done these.

Simple enough, and to the point, but I have my reasons. I feel guilty for not using my time wisely if he ever raises a hand to help with the dishes, as if somehow I've resigned myself to the position of housewife. I've come to accept it as the way things are, but I refuse to take credit for the assumption. I don't mind so much now that I'm not working, and I should be doing everything I can to make up for that. But it seems like it has always been expected of me, even when I was pulling in as much money as he was, sometimes more.

"I'll feel bad." It's an easy answer, and a true one. Even better, I won't have to go into a long explanation, which might end up in an 'All I ask of you' battle. I stand next to his right elbow as the smell of citrus wafts through my nose, trying to stay out of the way, but hoping more that he'll succumb to my stare and leave me to take care of them. Did I mention how specific I am about the way my responsibilities are handled? "Why don't you just let me do them?" I sigh.

I'm sorry.

"Here, you can dry." He's reluctant to give up his position at the sink, so I go and search for a clean towel. I'd much rather let them drain in the dish holder, but there are far too many of them, which is shameful really, for a household of only two. Besides, when I dry them with a towel, they pick up bits of cloth, and look like a white shirt does once it's been swathed in a newly but cheaply made sweater.

"I hate using the towels. They leave lint on the dishes."

"That's because they're wet. Let them drain for a while, and then wipe them down to make room for more." He doesn't look at me as his soapy arms continue bathing ceramic containers under the hot faucet.

I try his idea, but each time he lands something new in the rack, the last thing to be dropped there becomes wetter than before. "Besides," I add, adjusting the hem of my shirt over my pregnant belly, "you don't scrub them as much as I do, and I don't want to eat off of something spotted." It sounds insulting, but I have a slight germ phobia. And when I say slight, I mean extreme.

"You take too long." He's serious, but the side of his mouth begins to tug upward. "You can be my spotchecker."

I watch the water spiraling down the drain on the nearest side of the sink, as it runs from his arms, past the ridge he's working behind. There are days I'm proud of the way I keep the house, but those don't last very long. Neither does the condition of the house. It seems that nothing is ever completely finished in my world, and that goes for more than housework.

I spot him working on a pan, turning it over and over in his hands, but still missing the caked residue in its center with his soapy sponge. I can't help but think to myself that we should change those more often, before I point it out to him.

"Oh, there's nothing on it," he teases, as he often does. It only tends to frustrate me when he teases about bigger issues, pretending that I don't have a problem when I most seriously do. He turns it over to the spot I've pointed out to him and scrubs it down, satisfying that slight perfectionistic urge I have. It terrifies me how easily he can accept dish scum as long as it's been 'purified' with soap and water, and I am bewildered as to why adversely, such things as sharing a towel will make him cringe. I think about his just-washed hair, wildly pointing to the sky as he runs a towel over it, and I want to thread my dishrag hands through it. If only they were clean.

"Thank you," I say, honestly grateful that I watched over his shoulder like a hawk.

He turns off the water. The dishes are safe in their cabinets, loose threads and all. Everything in the sink is finished, save for the silverware, and he asks me to wipe down the counters. That's something he always leaves for me, that silverware. Perhaps because it's tedious and time consuming, and by the time it's gotten to, the water has run cold. I take the sponge and wipe down the counters, and by that time, the towel I've used to dry the dishes has become his rag for cleaning off the stove. Why he always insists on doing things ass-backwards, I'll never know.

He always complains about the way I do things, and doesn't understand why I wait to do them in a specific order. I may be neurotic, but it still hurts. But I'm here now, wiping down the counter that I 'never wipe down,' thinking about whether or not I should scrub out the sink that I 'never scrub down'. My elbow grease will never work as good as his, and we both tend to 'touch up' each other's handiwork, I being as specific as I am and he claiming that I never tried in the first place. I'm snapped from my thoughts when he opens his mouth.

"We should do this more often."

I'm retracing my steps with a dry rag, the cleanliness of which I am doubtful. "We can be each other's spotcheckers," I can't help but bite out, sending a meaning with my message.

He laughs to himself, and I can see the grin spreading across his face as he works. "Since we're so good at pointing out each other's flaws?"

So he caught my metaphor after all.