Dish Duty

I scraped the dried rice and beans off my plate that had been sitting there for a week. I'd been too lazy - too depressed - to tackle the pile of ceramics that sat in my sink. I hated that I did this, but I guess part of me thought I would've hated the chore more last week. Every once in a while, dish washing relaxed me, like I was washing away all the grime from my thoughts as well. 

I went to place the plate on the barren shelf; my sink might as well have been my cupboard. It had been months since I'd drained my garbage disposal, and it was starting to stink. I flipped the switch and returned to organizing my dishes when I heard a loud, guttural squeal. I dropped the plate to the floor, and it shattered. I flipped the disposal switch off, and when I sighed, it sighed too. Regretfully, I reached my hand down the drain, assuming I would pull out a lost spoon or a misplaced quarter. Instead, I pulled out a small, furry ball with huge, solemn eyes. 

I screamed and dropped it to the ground, causing it to roll around, avoiding broken glass. I jumped up on my kitchen table chair and grabbed the nearest spatula, holding it like an axe above my head. Instead of scurrying away like a rodent, it rolled slowly and quietly to the foot of my chair and looked up at me. 

I took a long look at it. The furry, moss-like ball inflated and deflated like a breathing balloon. I took a breath and screamed, smashing it with my foot and ground it into the kitchen tile. Stomping, as if I were killing a spider over and over, just to ensure it was dead, I finally removed my soggy shoe, revealing a wet residue squashed at my feet.

I always do my dishes now.