[15: Dinner turned out differently than I expected]

She pulled into the driveway again, such as it was. Two ruts worn into the shabby grass, headed toward the house. She sat in the silence of the front seat with the engine off and waited. She wasn’t sure what for, but she waited. 

She opened the door, and the heat and noise assaulted her again. Cicadas in the trees, a deafening rattle and hum, seeming to come from everywhere. Her hair lifted off her shoulders, the greying waves tightening into curls in the hot, damp weather.

She pressed the lock button on the keychain in her hand, and was startled by the shrill chirp from the car. She hadn’t expected it to seem so loud over the drone of the cicadas, but, maybe, perspective was everything.

She went back inside the house. She picked the pillows up off the floor beside the couch, and brushed the dust and ... something ...  from them and set them back on the couch.

She ran the water, the sink gurgling like the pipes had been long empty and the water had to come from far away, then a spurt of reddish water, then running clear. 

She scrubbed, first the sink, then a pile of dishes. Nowhere to put them once they were clean.

She fished around for dish towels, something to dry them with, but there was no such object in the kitchen.

She searched for a moment, then the livingroom, then saw the hall closet, door askew as things spilled out of it.

No towels, but several shabby tablecloths that didn’t look too dirty hung out of the door. She pulled on one, and all three fell to a heap at her feet, followed by several socks, a pair of underwear, and a half burned candle.

She sighed and scooped the tablecloths up and tucked them back onto the shelf. The door would shut this time, at least. She left the rest in the heap they’d landed in and sighed. “Gotta break some eggs to make cake.”

The kitchen cabinets were full, too. A few glasses looked like they were what passed for clean, but most of the rest had flecks of food on them. A bag of instant mashed potatoes leaked across the shelves, and the bowls seemed to be stuck in something. Maybe honey. 

She pulled, and they came loose from the shelf with a wet sounding crack. Some of the faded contact paper came with them, a dangling strip of checks or maybe brown gingham. It was hard to tell.

More for the pile on the floor, among the crusted pans and dishes.

The paper lining the shelves turned out to be a blessing. She’d always hated the stuff, but this time, she realized she could pick one of the bits at the back and pull it all out, dirt, dried honey and mashed potatoes and all.  She made a greasy, sticky wad and pressed it into the bulging grocery sack that doubled as the trash bag for the moment.

Finally, she dried the dishes with the tablecloth. Six bowls, none matching, though three turned out to be rather pretty, though one had a large chip out of one side. They didn’t stack neatly, but she managed to get them all in a row and onto the shelf.

Another sinkful of water spun out of the drain.