You’re doing the glasses. Two at a time. Careful. By the stem. The little light inside the door stays on. You keep your voice down for the neighbours. You’re always thinking of them. It’s not even late. An hour ago I said something I meant. You said the right thing back. You always say the right thing. And then we finished dinner. Don’t keep it clean. Make it ugly. Give me one thing you can’t take back. You say, “I don’t want to say something I don’t mean.” And you mean it. You fold the towel over the handle. You ask me if I want water. I say no. I want you to raise your voice in your own house. Don’t keep it clean. Make it ugly. Give me one thing you can’t take back. One thing. You never left a plate in the sink. You never texted twice. You never woke the neighbours. You never showed up without calling first. You never asked me not to go. Not once. Fine. I’ll go first. I stopped asking you for things. I don’t know when. You set the glass down. You don’t close the door. The light’s still on in there.
