The Timer on the Table
Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, not looking up from her saucepan.
He froze, salt jar in hand, peering at the shelf. Salt was in its usual spot, right next to the sugar bowl.
Where is it supposed to go? he asked cautiously.
Its not about where its supposed to go. It should be where I look for it. Ive told you before.
Its easier if you tell me exactly where, instead of me playing a guessing game, he replied, feeling familiar irritation rising.
She turned off the hob with a flourish, slammed on the lid, and finally looked at him.
Im tired of saying the same thing over and over. For once, can things just be… in their place?
So, Im doing it all wrong. Again. He slid the salt to the same shelf, just shifted it an inch to the right.
She opened her mouth as if to retort, then just banged the cupboard shut and marched out. He stood there, spoon in hand, listening to footsteps echoing down the hall. He sighed, tasted the soup, and added more salt without thinking.
An hour later, they ate in silence. The news droned from the telly in the lounge, its reflection flickering off the glass cabinet doors. She ate slowly, hardly looking at him. He stabbed his banger morosely, thinking how it always followed the same charted path: something trivial, a complaint, his comeback, her stonewall.
Is this it? Is this how were going to live? she asked suddenly.
He looked up, startled. What do you mean?
She put down her fork. You do something, I get annoyed, you act wounded. Then repeat. Is this a loop now?
How else are we supposed to get on? he managed a half-hearted smile. Its tradition.
No answering smile from her.
I read something, she said. About talking. Once a week. With a timer.
He blinked. With a what?
A timer. Ten minutes I talk, then ten you do. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, I need, I want. And the other one listens. No arguing, no defending. Just… listen.
Internet wisdom? he checked.
A book. Doesnt matter. I want to try.
He reached for his glass of water, taking a gulp to stall for time.
What if I dont want to? He kept his tone even.
Then well go on bickering about salt, she replied coolly. And frankly, I dont want that.
He studied her face, noticing the wrinkles deeper around her mouth, the tiredness from more than just the day. It was the sort of fatigue that seeps into a life.
Alright, he said. But just so you know, Im rubbish at these… techniques… you lot find on the telly.
You dont need to be good, she managed a weary smile. You just need to be honest.
Thursday evening, he was perched on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to read the news, stomach knotted like he was waiting for the dentist.
Sitting on the coffee table was the kitchen timerround, white, numbers round the edge. She usually set it for pies. Tonight, it sat between them, oddly out of place.
She brought two mugs of tea, sat across from him, jumper slightly stretched at the elbows, hair not quite tamed into a ponytail.
Shall we? she said.
Is there an agenda? he tried to deflect.
Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. Anything leftover spills into next week.
He nodded, set his phone aside. She wound the timer to 10 and pressed the button. It ticked quietly.
I feel she began, then hesitated.
He caught himself bracing for the familiar you never or you again, muscles tense. But she pressed on, hands clasped tightly.
I feel like Im just background. The house, the food, your shirts, our dayslike it all just runs by itself. And if I stopped, everything would fall apart, but nobody would even notice until it all went wrong.
He wanted to say he noticed, just didnt say it. Or perhaps that she didnt let him do much anyway. But he remembered the rules and kept quiet.
It matters to me, she glanced at him quickly, then away, that what I do is seen. Not praise, not thanks every day. Just sometimes, you could mention more than soup being nice. That you see the effort. That it doesnt run itself.
He swallowed. Timer ticking. He wanted to protest that work was tiring too. But rules were rulesno interruptions.
I want she sighed. I want not to default to responsible for everything. Your health, our birthdays, the kids. Sometimes I want to be allowed to be the weak one. Not always the one keeping it together.
He stared at her hands. The ring he gave her for their tenth, now digging a little into her finger. He remembered how nervous he was about the size.
Timer beeped. She jumped, half-laughed nervously.
Thats all. My ten minutes.
My go He coughed. Right.
She nodded, reset the timer, nudged it closer to him.
He felt like a schoolboy at the board.
I feel He grimaced at himself. I feel like at home, I want to just hide. Because if I get something wrong, I get noticed right away. If I do it right, well, thats just expected.
She nodded, waiting.
It matters to me, he went on, listening to the words as he formed them, that when I come home and collapse in the chair, it isnt a crime. Im not sat twiddling my thumbs all day. Im tired. Too.
She met his gaze: tired, yet intent.
I want he hesitated. I want that, when you get cross, you dont say I dont understand anything. I do understand. Maybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I just want to clam up. Because nothing I say will be right.
Timer beeped again. He flinched as if yanked from a dream.
They sat in silence. TV muted, something whirring quietly in the next rooma fridge, maybe the radiators.
Its strange, she said. Feels like a rehearsal.
Like were not married but patients or something, he ventured.
She smiled, wryly. Patients it is. Lets say we try this for a month. Once a week.
He shrugged. A month isnt a life sentence.
She nodded, picking up the timer to carry to the kitchen. He watched her go, realising the timer was now their newest piece of furniture.
Saturday, they went to Tesco. She led the charge with the trolley, he trailed behind with the list: milk, chicken, rice.
Grab some tomatoes, she said over her shoulder.
He selected a few, dropped them in a bag. He almost joked, I feel these tomatoes are heavy, but caught himself and smirked.
What? she turned back.
Just practising new phrasing.
She rolled her eyes but the corners of her mouth flickered.
You dont have to perform in public, she said. Then again maybe you do.
Passing biscuits, he grabbed her favourite, but paused, recalling her note about sugar and blood pressure. His hand hovered.
Get them, she said, noticing. Im a grown woman. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.
He tossed the pack in.
I he started, then paused.
What? she prompted.
I know you do a lot, he blurted, staring at the price label. Noted for Thursday.
She gave him a searching look, then nodded.
Ill count that, she said.
The second session was a flop.
He sat down fifteen minutes lateheld up at the office, then stuck in traffic, then a call from their son. She was already waiting, timer on the coffee table, notebook beside her.
Ready? she asked, no greeting.
Give me a minute. He shrugged off his coat, hung it over a chair, fetched water. Felt her gaze on his back.
You dont have to do this, she added. If you dont care.
I do, he replied, battling the resistance inside. Just rough day.
So did I, she shot back, but I got here on time.
He gripped his glass. Fine. On with it.
She set the timer: I feel like we just cohabit now. We talk bills, groceries, health. We never talk about what we want. I cant recall the last time we planned a holiday for us, instead of where someone invited us.
He thought of her sisters cottage, last years holiday sponsored by his companys welfare fund.
It matters to me that we have plansnot just obligations. Not just well get to the seaside one day, but here, on this date, for this long. And not just my job to drive itours.
He nodded, she stared past him.
I want to talk about sex when its not missing, she choked. Its embarrassing. I want more than just the thing itselfjust… hugs, touches, not by calendar.
His ears burned. He wanted to joke about age and those sorts of things, but couldnt.
When you turn away in bed, she added, I wonder if youre just done with me. Not just as a woman but me at all.
He tried not to look at the timer, not to see how much was left.
Done, she said as it beeped. Your turn.
He reached out as if to take the timer, his hand shook. She twisted the dial for him.
I feel like when we talk money, its as if Im some sort of cashpoint. If I say no to something, Im called stingy, not anxious.
She clamped her lips shut, but didnt interrupt.
I want you to know he pressed on, Im just scared. I remember counting pennies at the end of the month back in the 90s. And when you say, oh come on, dont fuss, I freeze up.
He took a breath.
Id like it if, when you plan big spends, we talk about it first. Not, Ive already signed up, booked it, sorted. It isnt the money. Its the surprises I cant handle.
The timers shrill beep was a relief.
Can I say something? she burst out, breaking the rules.
He paused.
Go on, he said.
When you say things like cashpoint, it feels like you think all I do is spend. Im scared too. Scared of getting ill, of you leaving, being alone. Sometimes I buy things just to feel like we have a future. Like were still planning things.
He opened his mouth, then stopped himself. They stared at each other across the table, like passport officers at neighbouring checkpoints.
Thats off-timer, he said quietly.
I know, she whispered. But Im not a robot.
He managed a half-grin.
Maybe this techniques not for real people, he muttered.
Its for those who want to try again, she replied.
He sank back, feeling weary to the core.
Thats enough for tonight, he offered.
She looked at the timer, then at him.
Alright, she agreed. But lets not call it a failure. More like a note in the margins.
He nodded. She moved the timer closer to the tables edge, as if leaving the door open for next time.
That night, he tossed for ages. She lay beside him, back turned. He reached out, almost touched her shoulderthen pulled back, her words about feeling like housemates echoing round his mind.
He tucked his hand back, lay on his back, staring into the dark.
The third talk came early, in the bus.
They were off to the NHS surgery: his ECG, her bloods. The bus was jammed; they stood holding the pole. She stared out at the street; he watched her profile.
Are you cross? he asked.
No. Im thinking.
What about?
How were getting old, she replied, never looking away. If we cant talk now, well never have strength later.
He wanted to say he was still in fine fettle, but bit his tongue. He thought of how hed gasped for breath up the last flight of stairs last night.
Im scared, he blurted, of being stuck in hospital and you visiting all the time, quietly seething.
She turned to him. I wouldnt seethe, she said. Id be scared too.
He nodded.
That evening, sofa again, timer already out. She brought tea, settled opposite.
Lets start with you, she offered. My turn was on the bus.
He sighed, turned the dial to 10.
I feel that when you talk about being tired, I immediately assume Im being blamedeven if youre not saying that. So I start defending myself before youve finished.
She nodded.
It matters to me to learn to actually hear you, not just back-defend. But I was raised to think that if youre wrong, you get in trouble. So when you say you feel bad, I hear, youre bad.
He was surprised at himself, saying it aloud.
I want us to agree: when you talk feelings, its not automatically my fault. And if Ive botched something, please say exactlyyesterday, nownot you always.
The timer ticked. She listened, silent.
Done, he exhaled at the beep. Over to you.
She turned the dial.
I feel like Ive lived keeping it together for so long. For the kids, for you, for the parents. When you go silent, I feel like Im dragging the whole load myself.
He remembered last year, her mums funeralhed hardly said a thing.
It matters to me that sometimes youre the one to start a talk. Dont just wait for my explosionjust ask, how are you? Or lets talk. When I have to start all the time, I feel nagging.
He nodded.
I want to agree two things. First, no serious talks when one of us is knackered or cross. Not on the hoof, not between hallway and lift. If we need to, we delay.
He listened, searching her face.
Second, we dont raise voices in front of the kids. I know I dont always keep it in, but I want them not to see us shouting.
The timer beeped, but she spoke quickly, Thats all. Done.
He half-smiled.
Not quite by the book, he said.
More by life, she shot back.
He switched the timer off.
I agree. Both points.
She relaxed her shoulders.
And I, he added, want one thing too. If we run out of time, we dont spat all week. Just move it to Thursday. No endless war zones.
She considered it. We can try. And if somethings really on fire?
If its burning, we put it out. But not with petrol.
She snorted.
Deal, she said.
Between talks, life trundled on.
In the mornings, he made his coffee; she did the eggs. Sometimes he washed up without waiting to be asked. She noticed, though didnt always mention it. Evenings, they watched the telly, bickered over whose favourite actor was right. From time to time, she opened her mouth to say, thats just like us, but remembered the rule and made a mental note for Thursday.
One day she was at the cooker, stirring soup, when he came up behind her and put his hand on her waist. Just like that, for no particular reason.
Whats happened? she asked, not turning round.
Nothing, he said, Just practising.
Practising what? she asked, baffled.
Touching, he said. Not just by schedule.
She smirked, but didnt move away.
Ill give you a point for that, she said.
A month in, they sat on the sofa, timer between them.
So, are we carrying on? he asked.
What do you think? she replied.
He looked at the white plastic, her hands, his knees.
I think so. Were not finished learning.
We wont ever really learn, she shrugged. It isnt an exam. More like brushing your teeth.
He snorted.
Now thats romance for you.
Its understandable, at least, she said.
She set the timer for 10, put it back between them.
Lets keep it light tonight, she suggested. If we wander, well circle back.
No heroics, he agreed.
She took a breath.
I feel like things are lighter. Not perfect, but Im less invisible. Youve started talking, asking things. I notice.
He looked a little sheepish.
It matters to me that we dont drop all this once things get easier. Dont want old silence habits creeping back, explosions after weeks of silence.
He nodded.
I want that, a year from now, we can say were more honest. Not perfect, not argument-freejust honest.
Timer ticking. He felt less like joking than usual.
All done, she said at the beep. Your turn.
He set the timer.
I feel more scared, actually. Used to be, I could hide behind not-speaking. Now, I have to say thingsand Im scared Ill put my foot in it.
She tilted her head, listening.
It matters to me that you rememberIm not the enemy. If I talk fears, its not to blame you. Its just about me.
He paused.
I want us to keep this deal: every week, honestly, without blame. Even if we slip up its okay. But lets keep at itour own little contract.
Timer beeped again. He switched it off early.
They sat in quiet. In the kitchen, something clickedthe kettle shutting off. Next door, the neighbours laughed, the front door shut with a thud.
You know, she said, I always thought we needed one big revelation. Like in a film, everything suddenly changes. Turns out, its just bit by bit, week by week.
Little by little, he agreed.
She nodded. Little by little.
He saw her face: the lines hadnt disappeared, the tiredness stuck around. But he saw something else there, something he couldnt name straight away. Maybe it was attention.
Fancy a cuppa? he offered.
Go on, then, she agreed.
She picked up the timer and carried it to the kitchen, leaving it on the counter by the sugar bowl instead of hiding it away. He filled the kettle, set it to boil, and flicked on the hob.
Ive got a doctors appointment after work next Thursday, she said, leaning on the table. I might be late.
Then Friday it is, he replied. Not doing important talks when youre knackered.
She smiled at him. Deal.
He rummaged in the cupboard, fetched out two mugs, put them on the table. The kettle began to hiss.
Where do you want the salt? he asked suddenly, remembering that first argument.
She turned, spotted the jar in his hand.
Where I look for it, she said, then caught herself and added, Second shelf, left side.
He set it down.
Got it, he said.
She came over and gently touched his arm.
Thanks for asking, she whispered.
He nodded. The kettle rumbled louder. The timer sat quietly on the counter, waiting for its next Thursday.
