"...all I’ve tried to do seemed to make no difference…"-Sarah McLachlan

The kitchen is a cold and desolate space. Especially without hot water. These are the days we revert to a time before technology, a time of cave drawings and monosyllabic dialogue. I've reverted to manual dishwashing.

Gasp!

That's right! My mother told me stories of such a time but I never believed her! Dishes? Soap? Hands? It's primitive! There has always been a magic dish box in my kitchen.

Really.

Ok, no not really. When I was a kid, I had to wash the dishes all the time. I know, now you're wondering why "lying" isn't higher on my wife's list of reasons to leave. That’s easy. Because I don't lie. Not when it's important, not when it's more serious than you believing I never washed dishes by hand. Let's face it: Who cares? And yet I bring it up, and that is probably one of the real reasons she's leaving. I bring stuff up she'd rather push under the carpet. It could be as simple as not telling the guy at the door why I won't let him clean my rugs ("'No,' is all you have to say") or as complex as why I prefer the Beatles to the Stones. Ok, maybe not a good example in your world but in mine, it's dead on. It's huge.

But here's the thing: I am a great liar, but I like honesty, and I can be one of the most deceptive sneaks, but I prefer things out on the table. It's just so much better in a relationship. Keep things above the board, you're supposed to be a team, trust the other person to be your team mate, give them what they need to be there. That requires truth and honesty. I could break into a Billy Joel song here, but I won't. Just know that these things are important to me. I offer them because I expect them.

That is high on my list of issues when it comes to my wife.

For example, these "other things" that were already on her list. The "other" reasons for leaving me. The other ones she's never mentioned. Why would you do that? Why wouldn't you present these things to your partner so that they could either say, "I can work on that," or sigh, "Whatever." Give them a chance, or you're setting them up for failure. They're gonna trip over the damn rug you've pushed everything under.

It all comes back to washing the dishes tonight. See? You thought that was just a blind lead in. I told you: I'm devious. What's worse, I'm smarter than I look, and let me tell you, GQ has dubbed that look "slow and simple." So I have lots of room to work with. I could be Yogi Bear smart and still be smarter than I look. "Smarter than the average bear." Where was Yogi getting his sample group? The average bear gets the picnic basket, the family pet, pretty much whatever he wants to eat. Yogi? Yeah those berries make you soooo smart.

I'm smart enough, they allow me to wash dishes when there isn't any hot water. Tonight, MyWife boiled it on the stove, poured it in the sink. I added the soap and faucet water until the mixture became frothy and temperate. I offered to let MyWife test it after a few tablespoons of cold, but she declined.

Damn! I'm always my own guinea pi—OW! That's hot!

I washed. She rinsed. She also put the dishes in our only available drainer. You'll like this, it was my idea: inside the dishwasher. That's right. Clean dishes in the dishwasher, what a concept. She liked it; it meant she didn't have to dry.

After washing, I did what I always did as a kid: I wiped down the counters and the stove. Looking at MyWife, she's staring at me, agape. I pick up her jaw, wipe the spittle from the counter, then put the jaw back. "What?" I ask, growing more uncomfortable as each gaze moment passes.

"I've never seen you do this."

The voice in my head says "smack her! Smack her with the smelly sponge of discontent." My arm flinches in obedience, but I'm more afraid the scouring pad side might scratch her; I resist. That's all I need is people thinking I'm abusive and abrasive.

So who does she think I am? "I've never seen you do this." Ever since I was a kid, I've always cleaned counters when I wash dishes. My step mother will tell you; she made me do it. Now it's as instinctive as the desire to hit MyWife with a sponge. Oh, the things different people inspire us to do!

Now granted, I don't step into the kitchen in the middle of the day, grab a sponge and start scrubbing. It's not what I do. But I do clean. I do stuff around the house! Don't tell me—-

AAARRRGGGHHHH!

Sorry. This is the part in my mind where I start listing all the things she doesn't do, to justify how special I am, how righteous I am, how unjustly vilified in her eyes I am. But it's too late to tell her now, and if I won't say it to her, I won't bore you with it.

It's only half a story anyway. My half, the important half, but still just half. And what if Dickens only gave us half of Great Expectations? Yeah, it'd still be 500 pages, but you get my point. Her story is pertinent, no matter how much I slight her. Her story closes the story of us, and prefaces the new story of Rob. A story that starts with Rob, a boy, looking for warm touch and hot water.