A solitary spotlight–we purchased the LED light bulb to increase contrast–shines down. I tie on my apron and pull on a pair of long, yellow gloves. Snap. I reach for the tap.
I’m doing dishes on stage. It’s a limited run. A one woman show, standing room only. No extra performances tonight–at least not ones by me.
The bulky items soak in the sink, half-submerged in water. I scrub every surface, working methodically at corners, down sides, all the way to the bottom. The cacophony of water flowing against ceramic and stainless steel reverberates throughout the room. I dance my fingers along each turn and straightaway, searching for bits of food left behind. A quick rinse, a drop in the drying rack. The introductions are over.
The cast shuffles into groups. Dishes and mugs not accessorized with slop go straight into the dishwasher, no effort wasted. Slightly dirty items are offered to my terrier for him to “pre-wash” before they are placed into the appliance, too. Those remaining items, well-dressed in leftovers, deserve a good scour under a rush of water and detergent. I swoop in with the nozzle and aim.
Soap bubbles float in the air. Suds–green apple scented suds–cling to the sides of the sink. I scrub, rinse, check, and repeat as needed. All that’s left in the sink are a couple of forks, their times waiting to shine. I wash them. I lift my chefs knife from the counter and usher in a solo performance, handled with care this star of the show. I run the disposal, listening until the gurgles and rumbles fade away. I cut off the tap and remove my gloves with that Snap!
I flick out the light and exit. If lurking grease warrants an encore, Stockton will take a turn. For now, the stage stays dark.