Cleanliness is Next… | Short Story

Cupboards first.

Tins, jars, those broken strands of pasta that seem to get everywhere, the boxes of cereal with not even a quarter bowl left in them, all out onto the sideboard. Then a sponge and hot soapy water right innnn-to the crevices, into the hinges, across the front of the doors. Malcolm always likes the place gleaming.

Drawers next, and the follies of years past – pasta measurers, spiralizers – are laid out in the sink for all to see. The evidence of poor decisions made, of a lifestyle sought but never obtained.

It’s the Big Clean and no stone – nor toaster, nor cutlery tray for that matter – must be left unturned. Right…around the back of those taps, the pot plants and their trailing leaves lifted off the windowsill, the bin wiped down, the sinks bleached. No common after-tea clean this.

Half-five. Still another thirty minutes until Malcolm usually arrives home, leaving his rucksack in the hallway and putting his keys, phone, and wallet on top of the microwave – also now spotless, as an aside.

Mopping next, and the bleach makes her eyes water. Great, grey, translucent curls of steam rise from the tiles, fading into nothing. Get right…under those cupboards.

Of course, it might not have been necessary to do this deep a clean had Malcolm locked his phone, left sitting face up on the microwave. She wouldn’t have seen the open conversations, the kiss-hug-kiss-hugs, the silly, worn little pet names. So different from her own conversations with Malcolm – dinner orders, mainly.

The bottom of her apron serves as a handkerchief to dab at her sweaty forehead, the corners of her eyes. Hard work, this, but then it needs to be spotless.

Speaking of spotless, there is one area of the kitchen where she still cannot bring herself to look at. In the periphery of her vision, underneath the perfectly-laid kitchen table, there is a silken tie splayed across the black tiles, the dark dome of the heavy wok against the white.

A tuneless hum issues from her lips as the mop goes back in the bucket. Into the wringer, squeeeze, and out again. The red creeps across the tiles, black and white. She puts on another kettle of water.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Image courtesy of Ruth Hartnup. My recent short stories include ‘Little Daily Miracles‘ and ‘We, the Dead‘.

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Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com and tweets at https://twitter.com/mjrichardso0.