He left before eight, leaving his mug half-full on the table. The tea had gone cold, a dark ring forming on the inside of the ceramic.
I carried the mugs to the sink and turned on the tap. When I reached for the sponge, my sleeve caught the edge of the wooden knife block.
It wobbled, sliding two inches to the left. In the yellow light of the under-cabinet bulb, I saw the thick grey ridge of grease and dust that had built up behind it.
I ran my finger through the grime, my skin coming away black and sticky. I looked at the dark slots where the steak knives sat, wondering how long it had been since I cleaned them.
I could not remember the last time I had moved the block to scrub the wood beneath it. A cold knot formed in my stomach.
I opened the small cabinet next to the stove where I kept my herbs and spices. I pulled down the jar of paprika, but the deep red powder had turned the color of dry Ohio clay.
I unscrewed the lid of the oregano jar and held it to my nose, breathing in. There was no scent of the garden, only the dry, stale smell of dust.
The thyme was the same, a grey heap of nothing at the bottom of the glass. I stood there in the quiet kitchen, holding the jar of faded oregano, feeling a deep wave of self-doubt.
The sun had barely cleared the silver maple in the backyard when Brenda let herself in. Her gold watch caught the early light as she dumped a thick stack of envelopes onto the kitchen counter, right next to the loaf of sandwich bread I had bought the day before.
“I grabbed these from the box by the road,” Brenda said, her voice high and sweet, moving with a rapid rhythm that always made my ears tired. “You really shouldn’t let them pile up out there, Clara. It tells the whole street when you haven’t been out.”
She began sliding her manicured finger under the paper flaps, sorting the letters into two piles on the old oak countertop.
