Thoughts from the Kettle

'Standing Woman' by Thomas Hovenden ca. 1881-82

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The days roll into each other.

I try to keep myself busy with errands and overdue decorating. I’m currently on my eighth coat of Forest Green in the hallway. I attempt my usual precision — he hated decorating, never had the patience — but in the end I’m just slapping it on like a toddler at playgroup.

Still no word from the coroner or funeral directors.

Apparently, there’s a queue to die.

He would have found that funny.

I cracked my phone today after it fell off the porch shelf as I was putting my boots on. I instantly think of him and the dozens of phones he cracked, broke, or simply lost. It happened so often we once held a funeral for the last mobile victim. Sometimes I fantasise about breaking into his old house and rescuing it from the cold earth.

There was also the time I put his phone in the washing machine.

He’d been searching for it for hours, and I’d reassured him it would (probably) turn up.

And turn up it did — just not where I expected.

As I pulled the fresh-smelling sheets from the machine, something heavy tumbled onto the floor. I looked down. Fuck, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Love..?” I called from the utility room. No answer. “Babe??”

“Yeh?” he finally shouted back, mouth clearly full of food.

“Um… you know your phone?”

Silence.

“Yehhh?” His head appeared around the doorframe.

“Well… I found it.”

“Great! Where was it?” he asked, smiling.

Oh god, I thought.

“I’m really sorry. I’ll buy you a new one. It’ll be here tomorrow. But…” I held it up. “It was in the washing machine. It must have got caught in the sheets. I’m so sorry.”

He stared at me, then at the phone.

I waited for the explosion. It didn’t come.

He started laughing. “Don’t worry, darling. I needed a new one anyway.”

I looked at him in surprised, adoring love. “You didn’t need a new one. I’m sorry, babe.”

I walked toward him like a child in deep trouble. He embraced me without a trace of hostility. We stood there for a moment, hugging in silence.

“Does this mean I get to put your phone in the dishwasher though?”

I opened my resting eyes and gazed up at him. “We don’t have a dishwasher.”

“I know. But if we did. Could I put it in there?”

I laughed. “Yeh. You can put my phone in the dishwasher.”

We looked at each other and smiled before kissing.

“You do owe me a new phone though. You’re right.”

Shit, I thought, remembering the £123-odd balance in my bank account. I could use my credit card.

“Of course. I’ll order one now. What do you want? The same phone? What was it again…?”

“No, I’ll get myself a phone. Don’t worry about that.”

“Oh.” I looked confused. “What do you mean then?”

“Well…” He tugged at the fabric on the arm of my hoodie. “I thought we could start by taking off this.”

He released me from the embrace and tugged my joggers down.

I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“God,” he said, looking down at me, pulling me closer. “You are so fucking delightfully predictable.”

He kissed me, and lifted me into his arms, as if rescuing a damsel from an impending faint, holding me tight.

“But first,” he said, “it’s time for a cold shower!”

He raced through the dusk-lit corridors of the cottage toward the bathroom, my shouted protests and our laughter trailing behind us.

Now, I stand on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, waiting for the kettle to boil in half-darkness. I place the teabag in the mug, dunk it in the hot water, and stir in two sugars. I let the spoon cool against my skin before going back to bed.