A Clean Sweep

I sweep the floors; mop the kitchen with a short rope mop and gather trash and recycling. At the sink, I scrub dried tomato sauce from a pot. I wash the bathroom with a sponge. I do not dust, but I remember to water the plants.


When Scott comes home, I present my productivity like a proud prattling third grader before her science fair project on photosynthesis. "Thanks."
He says, laying down his keys and handing me a floppy yellow ribbon.

Fine. Next week, I will ignore the damp unwashed towels sleeping in a pile; the trash bins of tampered tissues; the clumps of dog hair rolling like tumbleweed and the oily-fingerprinted water glasses on the nightstand.


Later, we sit side by side in the movie theater. I glance at his shoulder and think, I love that shoulder. I love those scratchy cheeks, the firm press of his fingertips on my back, that childish smile, and the way he carefully pulls on his shirt and sits to put on his shoes.

"Thanks again for cleaning. I really appreciate it."


"You're welcome." I say in a strange shyness, thankful for his gratitude.

I hate the feeling of crumbs crunching into my socks. That is the real reason why I clean, but I need the thanks like I need a broom, because half of the crumbs are his.