Cleaning Against the Quiet

With the house quiet after dinner, Greta Smith cleared the kitchen on routine: stacking bowls, wiping down the table, tipping crumbs into the bin. The soup left on the bench had long gone cold. The work was less about cleanliness than about having something orderly to do while her thoughts ran elsewhere.

Millie came to lie at the kitchen doorway, as far as she was usually allowed, and watched. Greta talked at her more than to her. She told the dog she would get no crumble, and complained that she shed, barked at nothing and dug up the new seedlings, yet was treated by the whole household like Queen Esther. Millie answered with a long sigh and stayed put. The grumbling was habit, and Greta knew it. In the empty house, the dog's steady presence was more comfort than she would have admitted.

She drank the cold dregs of the afternoon's chamomile at the bench, looking out of the window above the sink at a garden gone dark. She was not watching for anyone, but the habit of watching was there all the same.

Greta rinsed the cup, switched off the kitchen light and headed down the hallway. Millie rose and fell in beside her without being asked. Greta let her come, knowing she would be picking dog hair off the sewing machine for days. The house was too quiet to face alone.