Scouring

I watered the garden while thinking about this, then came inside and wrote it. So, not five minutes’ worth, exactly.

Cath was at the sink, cleaning the pot. Her shoulders were hunched, Every now and then she dabbed the steel wool in the plastic container full of scouring powder. Scrubbing, scrubbing. God only knows why. The pot wasn’t burnt or anything. No. It has to be perfect, as always, shining as if it were new.

The old stainless steel pressure cooker was used for almost everything. Now she was scrubbing the outside. And now the lid.

She ignored Andrea who had walked into the kitchen, tossed her bag on the kitchen table, and said “Hi, honey, I’m home”, by way of humour. Cath seemed intent on not turning around.

Then Andrea saw. She was crying. Jaw clenched, red cheeked. Tears streaming down her cheeks. That’s when she sniffed. Andrea came closer, and put her hand on her shoulder. Cath whipped around, eyes huge and angry, “What?!”

“I was about to ask you the same thing”, said Andrea.

“It’s Len. He’s dead. Bert told me when I saw him at the salon today.”