Empty plates and utensils, rinsed and stacked in the sink along with drink glasses free of orange juice dregs, were waiting patiently to be loaded into the dishwasher.

“I love that you cooked us breakfast. I love that you cleaned up the kitchen, but your attention to the stovetop is sorely lacking.”

He slung the damp dish towel he used to clean up over his shoulder, and fixed me with a blank stare.

“The only way to describe it is, it looks like a crime scene. Humpty Dumpty died here.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said snapping me with the towel.