Timer on the Table
Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, not looking up from the saucepan.
He froze, the salt jar in his hand, staring at the spice rack. The salt was right where it had always been, next to the sugar bowl.
So where does it go? he asked cautiously.
Not where does it go. Where Ill actually look for it. Ive told you before.
It would help if you just said where, instead of me playing guessing games, he replied, feeling that familiar flicker of irritation in his chest.
She switched off the hob with a clatter, put a lid on the pan, and turned to face him.
Im so tired of having to say things over and over. Sometimes Id like things to just be where theyre supposed to.
So Im doing everything wrong again, am I? he summed up, sliding the salt over on the same shelf but pushing it a bit further to the right.
She opened her mouth, ready with something to say, then slammed the cupboard shut and left the kitchen. He stood there, spoon in hand, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. With a sigh, he tasted the soup, shook in some more salt without thinking.
An hour later, they ate in silence. The TV hummed the news in the living room; the glow flickered on the display cabinets glass. She ate slowly, barely looking at him. He picked at his shepherds pie, thinking how everything kept following the same worn-out path: a little thing, a criticism, his reply, and then her silence.
Is this how were going to live? she asked out of nowhere.
He looked up.
What do you mean?
She put her fork down. You do something, I get annoyed, you sulk. On and on.
And what else can we do? he half-smiled. Its practically a tradition by now.
She didnt smile back.
I read about something the other day, she said. About talking. Once a week. Using a timer.
He blinked.
A timer?
Ten minutes me, ten minutes you. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, it matters to me, I want. And the other person just listens. No arguing, no defending. Just listens.
That from one of your websites? he checked.
From a book. Doesnt matter. I want to try it.
He reached for his water glass, buying himself a few seconds.
What if I dont want to? he asked, trying not to sound harsh.
Then well just keep arguing about the salt, she responded, steady as ever. I dont want that.
He looked at her face. The new lines around her mouth had deepened these past few years, though he couldnt recall exactly when. She looked tirednot just at the end of a day, but as though from a whole life.
All right, he said. But Ill warn you, Im no good at these techniques of yours.
You dont have to be good, she gave a weary smile. You just have to be honest.
That Thursday evening, he sat on the sofa pretending to read the news on his phone. He felt that uneasy stomach flip, like waiting for a dentists drill.
On the coffee table rested a kitchen timerround, white, numbers round its edge. She usually used it for baking scones. Today, it sat between them, foreign and out of place.
She brought in two mugs of tea and sat across from him, wearing a worn jumper, hair tied up loosely.
Well? she said. Shall we begin?
Do we have an agenda? he tried to joke.
Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. If theres more to say, well save it for next time.
He nodded, setting his phone aside. She picked up the timer, twisted it to 10, pressed the button. A soft ticking began.
I feel she started, then faltered.
He caught himself bracing for the usual you never or you always, tensing almost by instinct. But she pressed her hands together and continued:
I feel like Im just background. As though the house, food, your shirts, our daysthey all just happen by default. If I stopped, everything would fall apart, but nobody would notice until it was too late.
He wanted to tell her that he did notice. That maybe he just didnt say it aloud. That perhaps she didnt let him do anything, either. But he remembered the rules and pressed his lips together.
It matters to me, she glanced at him then quickly looked away, that what I do is visible. Not that you have to thank me every day or hand out praise. But sometimes, maybe you could say not just that the soups good, but that you know it takes effortthat its not just automatic.
He swallowed hard. The timer ticked on. He wanted to protest, to say that he got tired too, that work wasnt a walk in the park. But interrupting wasnt allowed.
I want she paused for breath, to not be automatically responsible for everything. For your health, our birthdays, the kids. I want to be allowed to be a bit weak sometimes, not just the one keeping everything together.
He stared at her hands. Her wedding band, the one hed given her on their tenth anniversary, dug slightly into the skin. He remembered how nervous hed been picking the size.
The timer buzzed. She jumped, gave a nervous little laugh.
Thats me done, she said. My ten minutes.
Right. Now me, he coughed. My turn.
She nodded and reset the timer, sliding it toward him.
He felt like a schoolboy called to the front of the class.
I feel he began, and thought he sounded ridiculous. I feel like at home, I want to hide sometimes. Because if I mess up, you always notice. But if I do something right, its just whats expected.
She nodded quietly.
It matters to me, he listened to his own words with surprise, that when I come home and sit down in my chair, its not seen as a crime. I havent been putting my feet up all dayIm worn out, too.
He caught her tired, but attentive, gaze.
I want when you get angry, for you not to say I dont understand anything. I do. Maybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I just want to shut down and keep quiet. Because theres no right answer after that.
The timer rang again. He jumped, as if pulled from deep water.
They sat in the quiet. The TV was off; in the next room, something whirredprobably the fridge.
Odd, she said. It feels like a rehearsal.
Like were not husband and wife, but patients, he searched for a word.
She chuckled.
Patients, then. Lets stick with this for at least a month. Once a week.
He shrugged. A month isnt a life sentence.
She nodded, scooping up the timer and carrying it off to the kitchen. He watched her go and found himself thinking, strangely, that they now had a new piece of furniture.
On Saturday they went to the supermarket. She led the way with the trolley, and he followed with a listmilk, chicken, rice.
Pick up some tomatoes, she said, not turning round.
He chose a few, slipping them into a bag. He almost said, I feel like these tomatoes weigh a ton, and gave a chuckle.
Whats funny? she glanced back.
Just practicing, he replied. With the new ways of putting things.
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
You dont have to do it in public, she said. Though maybe you should.
He passed the biscuit aisle. Instinctively, he reached for her favourite, then remembered what shed said about sugar and her blood pressure. His hand paused.
Go on, get them, she said, noticing his hesitation. Im not a child. If I dont want them, Ill take them to the office.
He dropped a packet in the trolley.
I he started, then stopped.
What? she prompted.
I know you do a lot, he managed, studying the price label. Thats for next Thursday.
She looked at him more carefully and nodded.
Ill put that on your scorecard, she said.
The second talk didnt go so smoothly.
He came in fifteen minutes late: work had dragged on, then there was a jam on the ring road, and his son called afterwards. She was already waiting, timer sat on the table, her notebook beside it.
Ready? she asked, not bothering with greetings.
Give me a moment, he hung his jacket over the chair, headed to the kitchen for water, then came back, feeling her silent gaze.
You dont have to do this, she said. If you really dont want to.
I do, he replied, even though everything inside him recoiled. Its just been a rough day.
Mine too, came her clipped reply. But I still showed up.
He gripped the glass.
All right, he muttered. Go ahead.
She set the timer for 10.
I feel, she began, like we live like flatmates. We talk about bills, groceries, healthbut never about what either of us wants. I cant remember the last time we planned a holiday together, instead of just being told where weve been invited along.
He thought of her sisters cottage, and the coastal trip they’d done last year on her works recommendation.
It matters to me, she went on, that we have plans together. Not just we might go to the seaside someday, but something definite: here, then, for this long. And not just me dragging you alongbut both of us.
He nodded, though she was looking out the window.
I want she hesitated, I want us to talk about sexnot only when were not having it. Its awkward to say, but its not just about the act. Its the affection. The hugs, the touches, not on a timetable.
He felt his ears go hot. He nearly joked that they were a bit old for all this anyway, but couldnt find the right words.
When you turn away from me at night, she added softly, I wonder if youve just lost interest. Not just as a wife, but at all.
The timer ticked. He avoided its face, not wanting to see how much time was left.
Thats it, she said as the alarm sounded. Your turn.
His hand shook as he went for the timer. She reset it and nudged it over.
I feel, he started, that when we talk about money, its like Im just a cash machine. If I say no to anything, it sounds like stinginess, when actually its fear.
She tightened her lips, but said nothing.
Its important that you know, he continued, Im scared of losing the safety net. I remember counting every penny back in the nineties. When you brush it off and say, Oh stop worryingI just clamp up inside.
He breathed in.
I want us to discuss big purchases beforehandnot after youve already booked, bought, arranged it. Im not against spending. Im against surprises.
The timer beeped. He breathed a sigh of relief.
May I say something? she blurted out. Its not by the rules, but I cant keep quiet.
He paused.
Go on, he said.
When you call yourself a cash machine, her voice trembled, it sounds like you think I only ever spend. But Im scared too. Scared of falling ill, of you leaving, of being left alone. And sometimes when I buy things, its not about your moneyits about feeling we still have a future. That we still make plans.
He opened his mouth to respond but checked himself in time. They looked at each other across the table, as if separated by customs controls.
Thats not on the timer, he whispered.
I know, she replied. But Im not a robot.
He gave a grim smile.
Maybe this technique isnt for people with actual hearts and lives, he muttered.
Its for anyone willing to try again, she replied quietly.
He slumped back, feeling worn out down to his bones.
Lets leave it for tonight, he suggested.
She looked at the timer, then at him.
All right, she agreed. But lets not call this a failure. Just a note in the margin.
He nodded. She took the timer, but instead of putting it away, just left it near the tables edgeas if it might be needed again.
That night he couldnt sleep. She lay beside him, turned away. He reached out, wanting to put his hand on her shoulder, then stopped just short. Her words about being just flatmates swirled in his mind.
Quietly, he drew his hand back, rolling onto his back and staring into the darkness.
The third talk happened a week on, but started early, on the bus.
They were off to the GP: he needed an ECG, she had bloods to give. Packed bus, both standing, holding onto the rail. She stared out at the city, he watched her profile.
Are you cross? he asked.
No, she said. Just thinking.
About what?
How were getting old, she answered, still gazing at the shops rolling past. And how, if we cant learn to talk now, later there wont be the energy.
He wanted to say he was still going strong, but something kept his words back. He remembered the breathlessness climbing to the fifth floor yesterday.
Im scared, he surprised himself by saying. That Ill end up in hospital, and youll visit me carrying bags, too angry to say anything.
She turned to him.
I wont be cross, she said. Ill be scared.
He nodded.
That evening, after tea, the timer was already out on the table. She placed two mugs beside it and sat down.
Lets start with you tonight, she offered. I said enough on the bus.
He sighed, twisting the timer to 10.
I feel, he said, that when you talk about being tired, I immediately hear it as criticismeven when it isnt. I start defending myself before you finish.
She nodded.
It matters to me, he continued, to be able to listen to you, not just get defensive. But I just dont know how. I was raised that, if youre at fault, you get told off. So when you say youre unhappy, I hear Im a failure.
Hed never said this aloud before, and he found it odd.
I want, he finished, us to agree that, when youre talking about your feelings, it doesnt mean Im always to blame. And if I do get something wrong, can you be specific say yesterday, or just now. Not always.
The timer ticked away. She listened in silence.
All right, he sighed as the alarm went. Your turn.
She set the dial.
I feel, she said slowly, that Ive been in holding-it-together mode for ages. For the kids, you, our parents. And when you shut down and go all quiet, it feels like Im hauling a cart alone.
He remembered her mothers funeral last year. He really had kept silent most of that month.
Its important to me, she continued, that sometimes you bring things up yourself. Dont wait until I explodejust ask how I am, or suggest we talk. Because if Im the only one starting things, I feel annoying.
He nodded.
I want she paused for a moment, us to agree on two things. One: dont tackle the big issues when one of us is already wiped out or angry. Not in passing, not between the door and lift. We move it to another time if needed.
He watched her face, intent.
And two, she went on, we never raise our voices in front of the kids. I know I slip up, but I dont want them to see us shouting.
The timer buzzed, but she quickly added, Thats it. Im done.
He managed a small smile.
Not exactly in the manual, he observed.
No, but its life, she replied.
He reached for the timer and switched it off.
I agree, he said. To both things.
She relaxed her shoulders a little.
And I, he added after a moment, want one more rule.
Whats that? she asked, wary.
If we run out of time in the ten minutes, we dont carry on arguing till midnight. We move it to next Thursday. So were not always fighting at half-strength.
She considered it.
We can try, she said. But what if somethings urgent?
If its on fire, we put it out, he replied. But lets not use petrol.
She gave a short laugh.
Agreed, she said.
Between talks, life carried on in its ordinary way.
Every morning hed make coffee, while she fried eggs. Sometimes hed wash up without her asking. She noticed, though she didnt always mention it. They watched telly together in the evenings, argued about which detectives were right in their shows. Sometimes shed want to say, Thats just like us! but remembered their rule and saved it for Thursday.
One afternoon, she was stirring soup at the stove when she felt him come up behind her, his hand gently at her waist. Just because, for no reason.
Whats up? she asked, not turning round.
Nothing, he replied. Im practicing.
At what? she challenged.
Touching, he said. Not just according to schedule.
She smiled to herself, not moving away.
Bonus points, she murmured.
A month later, they sat on the sofa again, timer between them.
Shall we keep going? he asked.
What do you think? she replied.
He looked at the white plastic dial, at her hands, at his knees.
I think yes, he said. We havent mastered it yet.
We never will, she shrugged. Its not an exam. Its just like brushing your teeth.
He snorted.
Romantic.
But relatable, she countered.
She twisted the dial to 10 and set the timer back down.
Lets be easy on ourselves today, she suggested. If we go off topic, well circle back.
No overkill, he agreed.
She took a breath.
I feel, she said, that things are a little lighter for me now. Not in every way, but somehow Im not invisible anymore. You talk to me now. You ask. I notice.
He blushed a bit.
It matters to me, she went on, that we dont drop this once things get easier again. That we dont slip back into not speaking at all until we blow up.
He nodded.
I want, she said, that a year from now we can say: Were more honest with each other. Not perfect, not fight-free. Just more honest.
The timer kept ticking. He listened, feeling no urge to make a joke.
Thats it, she finished as the alarm buzzed. Your turn.
He set the dial, started it.
I feel, he said, more afraid, weirdly. It used to be easier just hiding behind my silence. Now now I have to speak. And Im scared Ill say the wrong thing. Hurt you without meaning to.
She listened, tilting her head.
It matters to me, he went on, that you rememberIm not the enemy. When I talk about my fears, its not against you. Its just about me.
He paused.
I want us to keep this rule once a week. To speak honestly, no blame. Even if we slip sometimes. That its our agreement.
The timer went off. He switched it off without waiting for its protest.
They sat there quietly. In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off. Next door, the neighbours were laughing, a door slammed downstairs.
You know, she said, I always thought we needed one big revelation. Like in the movies. Something to change everything. But it turns out
He finished, we just need to have these small talks. Every week, little by little.
She nodded. Bit by bit.
He looked at her face. The wrinkles remained, the tiredness too. But there was something elsea kind of attentiveness he recognised, finally.
Come have a cup of tea, he said.
All right, she smiled.
She carried the timer back into the kitchen, setting it beside the sugar bowl rather than hiding it away. He filled the kettle, set it to boil.
Next Thursday Ive got my GP appointment after work, she told him, leaning on the counter. Might be back late.
Well do Friday then, he replied. Lets not talk about big things when youre knackered.
She looked at him, smiled gently.
Deal, she said.
He opened the cupboard, got out two mugs, and set them down. The kettle hummed, almost boiling.
Where should I put the salt? he suddenly remembered their first argument.
She turned, saw the jar in his hand.
Where Ill find it, she answered automatically, then smiled and added, Second shelf, left side.
He placed the jar where she said.
Understood, he said.
She came over, touched his shoulder.
Thank you for asking, she said quietly.
He nodded. The kettle whistled. The timer kept its peace, ready to be needed again next Thursday.
Life is built not by extraordinary events, but by small, steady effortsa lesson it sometimes takes years to learn.
