When she ladled something steaming from the copper pot, I fished antibacterial wipes out of my satchel and began swabbing the forks. She saw me doing it.
I had slipped into Aunt Margarets terraced house in a quiet London suburb to drop off some papers. We only meet at Christmas and Easter, but this time the matter was sudden. She isnt feeling well, though it has nothing to do with money. Im not miserly; Im convinced that tidy rooms are the backbone of a decent life. One can live frugally, but the home must stay in proper order.
The hallway is lined with dustcatchers: countless little figurines, tea sets and jars of marmalade stacked in piles that look like miniature hills. In the bathroom sits a cats litter tray Aunt Margaret gives it a clean once a week. Rubbish heaps at her feet. The flat reeks of sewage and rotting food, a scent that seems to curl around the ceiling like a lazy cat.
Aunt Margaret offered me a bite and began setting the table. As she placed the plates, I noticed they were speckled with grease. While she was ladling the soup, I slipped the wipes from my bag and started wiping the forks until they shone.
She caught my eyes. When I started prodding at the food, she asked, Arent you hungry, or do you not like the taste?
What was I meant to answer? Have you ever found yourself in a dreamlike kitchen where cleaning feels more urgent than eating?
