Every evening, Ravi set the table before his wife came into the kitchen.

Two plates. Two tumblers. Two spoons.

He did it even on days when she was still in the bedroom talking to her sister on the phone.

He did it when she was angry with him.

He did it when he was angry with her.

Once, after a particularly bad argument about a leaking bathroom tap, they ate dinner without saying a word.

He still put down two plates.

She looked at them.

“You could have at least waited for the plumber before opening the wall.”

“The plumber said—”

“I don’t care what the plumber said.”

She sat down.

He passed the sambar.

That was how most of their arguments ended.

Not with apologies.

With sambar.

After their children moved out, the house became quieter.

The television stayed on longer. The grocery list got shorter. There were fewer vessels in the sink.

But dinner remained the same.

Two plates.

One evening, she came home late from the doctor.

Ravi had already served the rice.

She sat down and looked at her plate.

“You gave me too much.”

“You said you were hungry.”

“I said a little hungry.”

He took some rice back.

She watched him.

“You know,” she said, “we’ve eaten at this table for twenty-seven years.”

“Twenty-eight next month.”

“You counted?”

“You didn’t?”

She smiled.

Then she pointed at the table.

“Your plate is always crooked.”

He looked down.

It was.

“How long have you known?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

He straightened it.

She moved it back.

“Leave it.”

So he did.

The next evening, he put the plates down as usual.

Hers straight.

His slightly crooked.

She noticed.

She didn’t say anything.

About the Author

I’m the writer behind The Quiet Things, where I write about love, family, memory, healing, regret and the quiet moments people rarely put into words.

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