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They weren't awake, the guests, friends of my husband from his prior life. I thought about washing last night's dishes. They were his guests, from his prior life, not ours.
 My husband was "walking the dog:" smoking again. I shuffled through the mail, hearing the woman guest giggling in the other room.
I brought my coffee with me to the sink. I'd woken up in the middle of the night: would the curry permanently stain our dishes?
Standing at the sink, looking out at the muddy snow for my husband, I thought I heard the man guest groan, thought I heard a slap. I removed my rings and shined them with the dishrag.
I cleaned louder than the woman and man guest in the other room. The dishes spanked louder. The forks, spoons, and knives rattled against one another louder. Steam billowed from the basin and the fog smeared the window above the sink, obscuring me from my husband, coming up the walk, so that he couldn't see me alone and spotless -- conditions I sought immediately to resolve.
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