A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
I walked into the kitchen, where the yellow light from the ceiling fixture cast long shadows across the linoleum floor. Anna was standing at the sink, her back to me as she washed the dinner dishes.
She was handling the green ceramic mixing bowl with the chipped rim, running a blue sponge around the interior with slow, circular movements. The sound of running water filled the space between us, steam rising into the air and dampening the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Look, about what I said at dinner,” I began, stepping closer to the counter. “It was just a clumsy joke, Anna. I did not mean anything by it.”
She did not turn around, nor did she slow the movement of the sponge.
“I know how hard you work around here,” I said, trying to find a better angle. “The house runs like clockwork because of you. I was just trying to be funny.”
She turned off the faucet, the sudden silence in the kitchen hitting me like a physical blow. She set the green bowl in the drying rack, then wiped her soapy hands on a kitchen towel with absolute, deliberate precision.
