Lefteris waits

She said she would go for a walk over an hour ago.

After checking that Michael is sound asleep, Lefteris walks into the kitchen to wait for his wife. He sits on the edge of his chair, hunched, his elbows balanced on the arced end of their oak kitchen table, the one she won’t let him replace. The table is too old and he is sick of the folded napkin wedged beneath one of the legs, permanently taped there by Michael. She said, two weeks ago, that there are too many memories on this table, too many plates have scored its surface, and there are finger prints that no amount of wiping will erase. You know you are crazy, he softly replied, regretting the words. If you look close enough, she pushed, and mercifully caress the table for them with the end of your baby finger, you will feel where George always put his hands during supper. Her voice meditative, consciously deliberate.  Weaving his attention into each sober syllable, she continued: He always placed his fingers in the same place when he waited to be served, whether he knew it or not, Lefteris mou, and the weight of his prints are etched into the surface. She cast her eyes down on the blue pillow case she was knitting. Cutting all further discussion about the matter. The worry in his face receded into something less expressive, less assured, as he spied his wife nervously massaging her bottom lip with the tip of her cracked tongue.

Maybe she bumped into one of the old dog walkers in the neighbourhood.

Not wanting her to fuss over last night’s dishes, he unfastens himself from his chair and his reveries and takes two steps to the sink. He runs the hot water over the neat groups of dishes. Some forks and knives resting on three plates which sit in a frying pan. A quartet of glasses and a baking tray wait on the counter to the right. Squeezing a small amount of yellow detergent into a green sponge, he starts first with the glasses. They are the easiest to clean he hears himself say to Gabriel, in another life. The joints in his fingers finally soften as he folds the sponge into each glass. Then returns them to their row. Under the grey morning light, clusters of suds extinguish around the lips of the glasses. Steam draws out of them like transient crowns. But the forks are smaller, papou...forks are easier to do. He nodded at the boy squinting up at him under the bright morning light. Yes, agori mou, you are right, but you see how the forks have all that food on them? The boy brought the fork to his face, shielding his face with the other, and quickly nodded. Well, that means they are dirtier, you know...because your yiayia’s cooking is so good. He handed the smiling boy a glass. Now you see this one? Gabriel nodded three times, mindfully, knowing where his grandfather was leading him. The glass is not as dirty, papou, so that’s why you clean the glasses first. I knew that. He drew the boys head to his ribs like a treasure and said, You are too smart, my boy, and I’m proud that you want to help your yiayia with the dishes. Papou? Yes, agori mou. Yiayia said you’d give me five bucks to wash the dishes. Giggling into his sweater.  Lefteris protectively puts the last fork into one of the glasses, rinses his hands, and wet like that brings them to his face and cries.