Timer on the Table
Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she says, still stirring the pot.
He pauses, holding the jar, eyeing the shelf. The salt is where it always is, next to the sugar bowl.
Where does it need to go? he asks carefully.
Not just wherever. She sighs. Where I look for it. Ive told you this before.
Itd be easier if you just told me exactly where, he replies, feeling the familiar hint of irritation bubbling up.
She switches off the hob with a clatter, slams on the lid, and turns to face him.
Im tired of saying the same thing over and over, she says. Cant things just be in their places for once?
So Ive messed it up again, he concludes, shifting the salt to the same shelf, only a bit further right.
Shes halfway through a reply, but shuts the cupboard hard and leaves the kitchen. He stands there, still with the spoon in his hand, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. He sighs, tastes the soup, and adds a pinch more salt without thinking.
An hour later, they eat in silence. The TV chatters the news from the sitting room, its screen reflecting in the glass of the sideboard. She eats slowly, barely glancing at him. He prods a meatball around his plate, mulling over how things always seem to trace the same route: something small, then a sharp word, then his retort, then her ice.
So, is this just how were going to live? she blurts out.
He looks up.
What do you mean?
I mean, she puts down her fork, you do something, I get annoyed, you sulk. And around we go.
What do you suggest? He tries to smile. Its tradition, isnt it?
She doesnt smile.
I read something, she says, about conversations. Once a week. With a timer.
He blinks. A timer?
Yes, a timer. Ten minutes for me, ten for you. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, this matters to me, Id like. And the other person doesnt argue or defend. Just listens.
Is this from the internet? he asks.
A book. Doesnt matter. I want to try it.
He reaches for his glass, taking a sip to buy time.
And if I dont want to? he asks, trying not to sound cross.
Then well carry on arguing about the salt, she says calmly. I dont want that.
He studies her face. The lines by her mouth are deeper than he remembers, and hes not sure when that happened. She looks tired, not from today, but from a whole lifetime.
All right, he says. But I have to warn you, Im not exactly an expert at these techniques.
It isnt about being good at it, she gives a tired little smile. Its about being honest.
That Thursday evening, hes on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through the news. He feels a low hum of dread in his stomach, like waiting for the dentist.
The kitchen timer sits on the coffee table, round and white with black numbers. She usually puts it out for pies. Now it sits between them, odd and out of place.
She brings in two mugs of tea and sits across from him, wearing a worn-out jumper with stretched cuffs, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Well, she says, shall we start?
Do we have rules? he tries a joke.
Yes. Ill go first, ten minutes. Then you. If theres anything left, we can leave it for next time.
He nods, sets his phone aside. She picks up the timer, twists it to 10, presses the button. It starts ticking softly.
I feel she begins, and falls quiet.
He braces himself, expecting the usual you never or you always, muscles tensed. But she just clasps her hands together and goes on:
I feel like Im just background. The house, the food, your shirts, the routinesall of it is just assumed. And if I let it go, everything would fall apart and no one would notice until it got really bad.
He wants to say that he does notice. That maybe she doesnt give him the chance to help. But he remembers the rules and presses his lips together.
It matters to me, she says, glancing at him and then away. That what I do is seen. Not constant praise or thanks, just sometimes, I want to hear not just that the soup is good, but that you know how much work goes into it. That it doesnt just happen by itself.
He swallows. The timer ticks on. He wants to say hes tired too, that work is hardly easy, but the rules say: no butting in.
I want she sighs, I want not to be the default responsible one for everything. Your health, our holidays, the kids, all of it. Sometimes I want to be allowed to be weak, not always the one holding it together.
He looks at her hands, sees the ring he bought for their tenthhow it bites into her finger now. He remembers how nervous he was, trying to get the sizing right.
The timer beeps. She jumps, gives an awkward chuckle.
Thats it, she says, my ten minutes.
My turn, is it? He clears his throat.
She nods, resets the timer for him.
He feels like a schoolboy standing in front of the class.
I feel he starts, and hears himself sound ridiculous. I feel that at home I just want to hide. Because if I do something wrong, you always see it straight away. And if I do anything right, its just whats expected.
She nods, listening quietly.
It matters to me, he says, focusing on his words, that when I come back from work and flop into a chair, its not a crime. I dont sit all dayI work too, and Im exhausted.
She looks at him, tired but present.
I want he hesitates, I want, when youre angry, for you not to say you dont understand anything. I do understand. Maybe not all, but not nothing. When you say that, I just want to shut down and keep quiet, because whatever I say feels wrong.
The timer beeps. He flinches, as if jerked from deep water.
They sit in silence. The TV is off, something hums gently in the next roomthe fridge or the pipes.
Its odd, she says, like a rehearsal of life.
Like were not married, but he searches for the word, patients.
She grins faintly.
Well, then so be itlets agree: lets just try it for a month, once a week.
He shrugs. A month isnt a life sentence.
She nods and takes the timer with her to the kitchen. He watches her go, thinking that, unexpectedly, they now have a new piece of furniture.
On Saturday, they go to Tesco. She pushes the trolley ahead, he follows with the list: milk, chicken, rice.
Grab some tomatoes, she calls, not looking back.
He picks out a few, puts them in a bag. He catches himself thinking, I feel like these tomatoes are heavy, and smirks.
Whats funny? she glances over her shoulder.
Practising, he says, with new ways of phrasing things.
She rolls her eyes, though her lips twitch.
No need for it out in public, she says. Though maybe we do.
They pass the biscuit aisle. He reaches automatically for her favourite, then remembers what she said about sugar and her blood pressure. His hand hovers.
Go on, she says, noticing. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.
He drops a pack in the trolley.
I he starts, then stops.
What? she asks.
I know you do a lot, he gets out, eyes on the label. Thats for next Thursday.
She looks at him, more sharply, and nods.
Ill make a note of it, she says.
The second conversation is rougher.
He gets home fifteen minutes late, work dragged on, then traffic, then their son rings. Shes there already, the timer, her notebook set out on the table.
Ready? she asks, no greeting.
One sec, he shrugs off his coat, drapes it over a chair, heads to the kitchen for water, comes back, sits, feels her eyes in his back.
You dont have to do this, she says. If youre not interested, just say so.
I am, he says, though every nerve is resisting. Its just been a hard day.
Sos mine, she replies, clipped. But Im here on time.
He grips his glass.
All right, he says. Lets do it.
She sets the timer for ten.
I feel, she starts, like we live as housemates. We discuss bills and food and our health, but barely speak about what we want. I cant remember the last time we planned a trip together, instead of just going wherever were invited.
His mind jumps to her sisters place, last years seaside holiday Medicaid paid for.
Its important to me,” she continues, that we have plans, not just chores. Not just maybe one day by the sea, but something real: here, then, for this long. And not just me dragging it, but us.
He nods, though she stares past him.
I want she stumbles, I want us to talk about sex not only when its gone missing. Its awkward, but I dont just miss the act. I miss the attention. Hugs, touches, not because were supposed to, but just because.
A flush creeps over his ears. He wants to jokeat their age?but cant.
When you turn your back at night,” she adds, I feel like I dont interest you anymore. Not just as a woman, just at all.
The timer ticks. He tries not to look for how much times left.
Thats it, she says when the bell rings. Your turn.
He reaches for it, but his hand shakes. She sets it and slides it to him.
I feel,” he says, that the way we talk about money, you see me like some sort of cash machine. If I refuse something, you think Im being stingy, not that Im scared.
She presses her lips tight, but says nothing.
It matters to me that you know, he continues, Im afraid of the bottom falling out. I remember the nineties, how we counted every penny. So when you say, dont worry about it, it makes me tense all over.
He breathes in.
I want that before you make big purchases, we discuss it first. Not in a way where Im told after the fact: Ive already signed up, paid, agreed. Im not against spending, just against surprises.
The bell goes off. He feels relief.
Can I say something? she blurts. Its not in the rules but I cant hold it in.
He hesitates.
Go on, he says.
When you call yourself a cash machine, she says, voice trembling, it makes me feel like you think all I do is spend. Im scared too. Scared of getting ill, of you leaving, of ending up alone. Sometimes I buy things not because I want to spend your money, but to prove we have a future. That were still making plans.
He opens his mouth, but stops himself in time. Theyre separated by a coffee table, like a border.
“This isnt by the timer,” he says softly.
“I know,” she replies. “But I’m not a robot.”
He gives a wry, tired half-smile.
Maybe this technique isnt made for real people, he mutters.
Its for those who want another go, she says.
He leans back into the sofa, exhaustion in his bones.
Lets call it a day, he suggests.
She eyes the timer, then him.
Lets. But lets not call it a failure. Just a note in the margins.
He nods. She places the timer nearer the edge of the table, as if leaving it close for next time.
Night comes, and he lies awake for ages. Shes beside him, turned away. He reaches out, meaning to rest a hand on her shoulder, but stops just short. Her words about feeling like housemates spin in his head.
He pulls his hand back, lies on his back, staring into the darkness.
The third conversation starts early that week, on the bus.
Theyre headed to the surgery: he for an ECG, she for blood tests. Its full, theyre standing, gripping the rails. She gazes out the window; he studies her profile.
Are you cross? he asks.
No, she says. Im thinking.
About what?
Getting older, she replies, not looking at him. That if we dont learn to talk now, soon well be too tired.
He thinks about saying hes still got energy, but cant. He remembers struggling for breath climbing up the stairs yesterday.
Im afraid, he hears himself say, that Ill end up in hospital and youll be running back and forth angry with me.
She turns his way.
I wont be angry, she says. Ill be frightened.
He nods.
That evening, when they sit down, the timer is already there. She sets out two mugs of tea and sits across from him.
Lets start with you tonight, she suggests. I did enough talking on the bus.
He sighs, sets the timer to ten.
I feel, he says, that when you talk about being tired, I immediately think youre blaming me. Even when youre not. And I start making excuses before youve finished.
She nods.
It matters to me, he continues, that I learn to really hear you, not just defend myself. Ive always been taught, if youre at fault, youre punished. So when you say youre unhappy, I hear: youre bad.
He says it out loud for the first time, surprising himself.
I want us to agree, he says, that when you talk about your feelings, it doesnt mean Im automatically guilty. And if I do something wrong, you tell me exactlyyesterday or just nownot always.
The timer ticks. She listens, no interruptions.
All done, he says, as the bell rings. Your go.
She turns it back.
I feel, she says slowly, like Ive been living in hold it together mode for ages. For the kids, you, my parents. And when you withdraw, I feel like Im dragging the lot on my own.
He recalls her mothers funeral last year, how little he spoke.
It matters to me,” she goes on, that you sometimes start the conversation. Not just wait until Im at breaking point. Just say How are you? or Lets discuss things. When Im always the one to start, I feel nagging.
He nods.
Id like us to agree on two things, she continues after a breath. One: if one of us is tired or furious, we dont get into big talks. Not on the run, not between doors. Postpone if need be.
He watches her, searching her face.
Two: no raising voices around the kids. I know I slip sometimes, but I dont want them hearing us like that.
The timer beeps but she carries on, quickly:
Thats all, she finishes.
He half-smiles.
Thats breaking the rules, he points out.
At least its real life, she counters.
He turns off the timer.
Agreed, he says. To both.
She relaxes a little.
And I, he adds after a moment, have one request.
Whats that? she says, wary.
If we dont get through it all in ten minutes, he says, lets not keep arguing all night. Lets move it to the next Thursday. No drawn-out battles.
She considers.
We can try, she says. But what if its urgent?
If its urgent, we deal with it, he nods, but not with petrol on flames.
She half-laughs.
Agreed, she says.
Between these chats, life strolls along.
In the mornings, he makes coffee; she fries eggs. Sometimes he does the washing up before she gets the chance to ask. She notices but doesnt always say so. In the evenings, they watch dramas, bickering about which actor is right. Every now and then, she starts to say, Thats just like us, but remembers their rule and saves it for Thursday.
One morning, shes stirring soup and feels him come up behind, resting a hand on her waist. Just becauseno occasion.
Whats that for? she asks, not turning.
Nothing, he replies. Practising.
Practising what? she says.
Holding you, he says, not just to a schedule.
She smirks softly, but doesnt move away.
Ill count that as progress, she says.
A month in, theyre back on the sofa, timer between them.
Shall we keep going? he asks.
What do you think? she counters.
He studies the white circle, her hands, his knees.
I think so, he says. Weve not cracked it yet.
We never will, she shrugs. Its not an exam. More like brushing your teeth.
He snorts. Not especially romantic.
But very clear, she replies.
She sets the timer to ten and lays it back.
Lets do it gently today, she says. If we go off track, well circle back.
No zealots, he says.
She breathes in.
I feel, she says, lighter. Not all the time, but like I stopped being invisible. Youve started to speak up, to ask. I see it.
He flushes a little.
It matters to me, she goes on, that we dont forget this as soon as things get easier. So we dont slip back into silence until something explodes.
He nods.
I want, she finishes, that a year from now well say: Were more honest. Not perfect, not without rows, just more honest.
The timer ticks. He listens and, for once, doesnt want to make a joke out of it.
All done, she says, as it rings. Your turn.
He sets it back.
I feel, he says, more scared, now. Before, I could hide behind silence, now I have to talk. And Im worried Ill say the wrong thing, upset you without meaning to.
She listens with her head tipped.
It matters, he continues, that you remember Im not your enemy. If I speak about my fears, its not targeted at you. Its just me.
He hesitates.
I want us to stick to this ruleonce a week, honesty, no blame. Even if we slip up here and there. Let it be our pact.
The timer beeps. He switches it off.
They sit quietly. In the kitchen, the kettle clicks off. Voices and doors drift in from next door.
You know, she says, I kept waiting for one big revelation, like in a film. Something that changes everything. But it turns out
Were just trying, bit by bit, he says.
Yes, she nods, bit by bit.
He looks at her. The lines and the tiredness are still there. But so is something else he cant namemaybe, just maybe, attention.
Come and have tea, he suggests.
Go on, then, she agrees.
She picks up the timer and carries it to the kitchen, setting it beside the sugar bowl, not hiding it away. He fills the kettle, lights the hob.
Ive got a doctors appointment next Thursday after work, she says, pressing her palms to the table. I might be late.
Lets move it to Friday, he answers. No talking serious stuff when youre knackered.
She looks at him and smiles.
Deal, she says.
He opens the cupboard, brings out two mugs, sets them down. The kettle starts to rumble.
Where should I put the salt? he asks suddenly, recalling that first conversation.
She turns, sees the jar in his hand.
Where I look for it, she says automatically, then pauses and adds: Second shelf, on the left.
He places the salt exactly there.
Got it, he says.
She steps closer, touches his shoulder.
Thank you for asking, she says softly.
He nods. The kettle comes to the boil. The timer waits on the table, silent, until the next Thursday.
