Dishwater Panacea
by Dean H. Wild
The water—hot enough to make her hands ache—seemed depthless, the drain plug as unreachable as mercy. Suds, like gossamer bandages at her wrists, concealed the turbulence below but could not relieve it. She scrubbed harder and made the bottom of the pot slam against the side of the sink. Harsh business, getting things clean. A droplet—liquid exhaustion—traced the crease between her cheek and nose.
For a second she loathed the disorder; the chair lying on its back behind her, its rigored legs jutting above gouged and worn linoleum pits, the air over the table reeking of quitting time lager and the absence of bathwater. Then the droplet stung her lip which seemed full of hot and heavy clay as it continued to swell. All she said was You're late. What he said didn't matter. He couldn't possibly have meant it.
Seared-on smudges began to loosen under her efforts and eventually their traces would be rubbed clean, their memory dried off, their vessel stacked away, orderly until the next dinnertime. Tiresome. She wished the water could be hotter, somehow.
Another droplet streaked her face, this time from eye to chin.
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Author's Note
Funny, I thought standing at my own kitchen sink one day, how our outward behaviors are often extensions of deeper, darker patterns. And voila, this piece flowed forth.
Powerful stuff, Dean. Very good. "gossamer bandages" threw me off a bit, made me stop and imagine what that meant/would look like, then had to forgot about it and get back into flow of story.
But very good!
Thanks, Matt. Sorry the clunker pulled you out of it. Hmmm, something I may want to revise. I appreciate the feedback and the props.
Nicely done--the relationship, past and present, caught in one of those moments when we are alone with our thoughts. Nice.
I like this one too, but I wonder if you can tweak the last line... to make it not the last line. Coming here at the end, it's almost too neat. It's one of those 'aha!' moments that might be better embedded in the middle of the story. Something about it here strikes me as too neat, too... I dunno, too stylized, perhaps? It's one of those things (and I struggle with this myself) that shows the reader that the author knew this was coming all along -- had it in his bag of tricks, so to speak. Do you see what I am saying? I have suffered from this before too -- it's easy to do this in short fiction, because you want every line to count, and the last line is especially important. But here, it's almost too much at the end. An overstatement, perhaps?
Actually, the more I think on it, the more I think you could do something with the repetition of those droplets throughout the piece, and leave the ending more open... Just an idea.
Enjoyed reading this, as you can tell...
Painful picture here. Violence can never be washed clean, the emotional stain in unyeilding.
Great imagery in this with the gauged linolium and gossamer bandages of suds.
"Harsh business, getting things clean."
Yes! Great.
Ending is sentimental. Delete the last line, IMO.
"She wished the water could be hotter, somehow."
That's a PERFECT ending to this strong piece.