I stopped with two plates left.

I had washed everything except two plates and a saucepan when I noticed the cupboard handles. They needed wiping. Once I started, I would probably notice the cupboard doors.

This was how an evening disappeared in my flat. One finished job revealed the next one, and by the time I sat down I was annoyed that sitting down had taken so long.

I lived with my partner, who did plenty around the house and still managed to stop. I had assumed this meant we had different standards. He suggested we might have different definitions of finished.

We agreed what needed doing tonight.

We put food away, cleared the table and dealt with the things we needed for the morning. Then we left the remaining washing-up for the person who had agreed to do it.

That last part mattered. I was not resting by silently transferring a job to someone else. We were deciding together which things could wait and who would pick them up.

I made tea and took the book from the dry end of the counter. The cupboard handles remained visible. I practised looking at something else.

The first pause felt unfinished.

I did not instantly become comfortable with the arrangement. Twice I stood up as though I had forgotten an appointment. Twice I remembered that the appointment was with a saucepan.

My partner asked what I was reading. I told him, then read him a paragraph because it was funnier than my explanation. We talked for a while without either of us standing at the sink.

In the morning the plates were where we had left them. They had not multiplied. I washed them while the kettle boiled, which took less time than the debate I had conducted about them the night before.

The next evening I stopped at the point we had agreed. The handles could have another day.