I realize they don't have names. I don't know their names yet. I'll get to it when I get that information.
"I don't want to be here anymore. He makes me feel old."
He looked up at her, confused as to why she would feel that way. She gave him her trademark "you know
what I mean" look.
"What do you mean?"
She turned around to face him, leaning against the kitchen sink with her hands still covered in soap suds. Her hair had come loose from her ponytail, tendrils clinging to her face, plastered in place by the inevitable midsummer sweat that formed beads all over what skin she had exposed. Her faded pink linen blouse was a bit too small, but still loose enough in the arms that she had had to roll them up above her elbows while she did the dishes. He thought to himself how she looked like she might have walked out of an old sitcom. Maybe from Leave it to Beaver
or The Andy Griffith Show
. Black and white forced out into the world of color.
"I'm always the responsible one. I always break up the arguments. I always have to "care". I drive, I cook, I clean up afterward. I'm the fucking mother whenever we're around him. I'm twenty-fucking-three. If I'm going to be a mother it should be to my own damned toddler spawn. Not some dimwit motherfucker that went to your college for half a semester." She slammed the door to the dishwasher as if to emphasize her point. She looked at him, a somewhat disgusted expression on her face. After a moment she shook her head and turned back to the dishes.