Dinner

Our kitchen needs a clean.

First thing that crosses my mind as I walk in - before the smell, before the sight of you at the bench, before the rumble of my aching belly. I'm right. It does need a clean. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes. The floor is encrusted with old sugar, split and forgotten. The trashbag is full and sagging. The cat - that hateful, mewling cat - is sitting by an empty, chipped bowl.
Yes, our kitchen needs a clean.

"Smells good," I say. I try and be appreciative. You do your best with what you have, in this filthy, filthy kitchen. "What is it?"

"Not finished," you let me know. You're distracted. I can sense it in your voice, see it in the arch of your back. I wonder idly how long you've been in this kitchen, amongst the dirt and grime. You'll cook anyway, you always do, but I'm wondering where you found the resources. The fridge is empty - aside from what's rotting in the vetetable crisper.
There was some milk that had gone off, but I drank it on the way to work.
There was a side of rancid meat, but you ate that for dinner last night. You tried to hide that from me, but I knew you did. It was gone when I looked for it after you went to sleep.
The fruit was rotted a week before we had that, trying not to meet one another's eyes.
I wonder what you've cooked.

"Is it far off? I'm starving!" I was, too. I'd been at work all day. You were here, seeing to the house, I suppose. I didn't really know what you did today, or the day before, or the day before. I suppose I just stopped paying attention. My mind wandered back, following my footsteps mentally, back along the crowded, smelly trainlines, back past the decrepid fields, back past the tumbledown buildings, back to work. I didn't remember anything about the day's work, really. It was all a bit of a blur. I do remember, quite vividly, that one of my workmates, Kerry, had half a box of cornflakes today. He had kept it under his shirt, to save it for our lunch break. Did we still get lunch breaks? I couldn't remember.
I wondered what had happened to Kerry. I reached up, slowly, and found a cornflake in my ear. I fished it out and chewed it slowly.
It was stale.

"How much longer?"
"Long enough. I've been here all day, you know."
"Have you?"

We trailed off. I knew there were things I was supposed to ask you, things I was supposed to do. But it was all so far away...like a dream. Something that we didn't need to do anymore, surely? Something that had been nice for a while, but wasn't important to anything now...
The smell of the turning meat made me blink and forget what I was thinking of. It almost brought tears to my eyes. I wondered how you had resisted the smell for so long.

There was a knock at the door.

You didn't turn around. I didn't move. The smell of the cooking meat was overpowering. It held me there, entrapped. Slowly, I started to wonder - if I moved quickly enough, there was that filthy frypan in the sink...if I grabbed it before you could turn, and hit you over the head hard enough, you probably wouldn't get up aga-

"I think you're supposed to go and open the door."
"Right."
I went to open the door. The smell of the meat lessened. I tried to focus on what I was doing. Hand on doorknob, door eases open, cough, blink. Not used to doing this twice in a day. Door opens outwards, not inwards. Not leaving for work, just answering door. Can do this. The smell of the meat is fading. Can do this.
It's the neighbour. Dimly, I remember that means he lives next door.
"Ah..." he says, and then blinks a bit and makes strange noises. I realise he has forgotten my name. I realise I have forgotten his name. Did I ever know it? I think I did, once.
"...you," he finishes. "I seem to have lost my children. Have you seen them?"
I blink stupidly. Have I seen his children? I don't remember. What happened to Kerry? "What do they look like?"
He blinks stupidly back. We both seem to be blinking a lot. Is that normal? Are we normal? "You know...I don't actually know. I wouldn't have come over here at all, only we're out of food at our place, me and my...and my wife...and I thought that one of my daughters was hiding a string of sausages...you know, for herself...so I thought I'd come over here and see if she'd been around..."
He slumps. Recalling so much had clearly been an effort for him. I feel a moment's sympathy for him, and then wonder why. Then I wonder what sympathy is.
He perks up. Flares his nostrils. "Say, what's that divine smell..."
I close the door. Smell the meat. Head back towards the kitchen.
For some reason I look out the front window as I walk past it. He's still there, standing stupidly in the garden. As I look out the window he slumps to his knees, starts picking the flowers in our flowerbed. Bringing them to his mouth. Eating our flowers.
I vaguely feel that he shouldn't be doing that, but he's doing it anyway, and the meat must be nearly done. You must have nearly finished by now.
"Who was at the door?" you ask me, not really caring.
"A man, looking for his daughter..." I reply, not really caring either. "What are you cooking?"
You don't reply.
The meat cooks in the oven, and smells delicious.
I notice a spot of red on the back of your hand.
Our kitchen is filthy.