The Timer on the Table
Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, eyes still fixed on the saucepan.
He paused, jar in hand, staring at the shelf. The salt sat as it always had, right beside the sugar bowl.
Well, where ought it to go? he asked carefully.
Not where ought, she retorted, but where I look for it. Ive told you already.
Itd be easier if you just said where, rather than making me guess, he replied, the familiar irritation beginning to bubble inside.
She switched off the hob with a clatter, put the lid on the pot, and turned to face him.
Im just tired of saying it over and over. Sometimes I wish things would simply be where they belong.
So, Im doing it all wrong again, he finished, placing the salt back on the same shelf, only a little further to the right.
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but instead slammed the cupboard door and strode out of the kitchen. He stood alone, spoon in hand, listening to her footsteps retreat down the corridor. He sighed, tasted the soup, and almost without thinking sprinkled a little more salt in.
An hour later, they sat in silence over dinner. The telly muttered the evening news in the lounge, its image reflected in the glass-fronted cabinet. She ate slowly, barely glancing up. He prodded his cutlet, thinking about how things always ended the same: a small thing, a complaint, his offending remark, her silence.
Is this how were going to live? she asked suddenly.
He looked up.
What do you mean?
She set her fork down. I mean, you do something, I get irritated, you get hurt, round and round.
He tried for a wry smile. Its tradition in this house.
She didnt laugh.
I read something, she said, about talking. Once a week. By the clock.
He blinked. By what?
By the clock. Ten minutes I talk, ten minutes you do. No you always, no you never. Only I feel, it matters to me, I want. And the other just listens. No interruption. No defending.
Did you find this on the internet? he queried.
In a book. Doesnt matter. Id like to try.
He reached for his glass of water, buying himself a second to consider.
And if I dont want to? he asked, trying not to sound too blunt.
Then well keep rowing about salt, she replied quietly. And I dont want that anymore.
He studied her face. The lines beside her mouth had deepened over the years, and he couldnt recall when it happened. She looked weary, as if life itself, not just the day, had tired her.
All right, he said. But I warn you, Im not much good at these techniques of yours.
You dont have to be good at them, she said, the hint of a smile weary but genuine. Only honest.
That Thursday evening, he sat on the settee, phone in hand, pretending to read the news but feeling the queasy anticipation of a dentists waiting room.
A kitchen timer, round and white with black digits, lay on the coffee table. She used it for baking, usually. Now it sat between them, oddly out of place.
She brought two mugs of tea and sat down opposite. She wore an old jumper, thinned at the elbows, her hair gathered in a loose ponytail.
Well then? she said, eyebrows raised. Shall we begin?
Do we have official rules? he tried to joke.
Yes. Ill go first. Ten minutes. Then you. Anything else can wait for next time.
He nodded, put his phone aside. She took the timer, set it to ten, and pressed the start. The gentle ticking began.
I feel she began, then stopped, hands clenched together. He caught himself bracing for the usual you never or you again, but she went on steadily:
I feel as though Im just background. This house, the food, your shirts, our days as if it all happens by itself, and if I stopped, everything would fall apart and nobody would notice until things got really bad.
He wanted to say he did notice. That he just didnt say so. That perhaps she didnt let him do anything. But he remembered the rule and pressed his lips together.
It matters to me, she said, glancing at him briefly, that what I do is visible. Not praise, not endless thanks, but sometimes not just that dinner tastes good, but that you see how much goes into it. That it doesnt just happen.
He swallowed. The timer ticked on. He wanted to argue that he was tired too, that work was no easier. But the rules were clear: no replies halfway.
I want she exhaled, not to be the one who has to carry everything by default. Your health, our celebrations, keeping in touch with the children I want to be allowed to be weak sometimes. Not just the one who always gets on with it.
He noted the wedding band hed given her for their tenth anniversary, slightly cutting into the skin of her finger now. He remembered being nervous about the right size back then.
The timer chimed. She startled, gave a small, nervous laugh.
Thats it, she said. My ten minutes.
My turn, he cleared his throat. She reset the timer and pushed it towards him.
He felt like a schoolboy being called to the front of the class.
I feel he started, immediately embarrassed by the awkward phrase. I feel like, at home, I just want to hide. Because if I dont get something quite right, its always noticed. If I do things properly, well, thats just how it should be.
She nodded slightly, not interrupting.
It matters to me, he went on, considering each word, that when I get home and collapse into my chair, its not a crime. I dont lounge all day I get tired at work too.
Her gaze was tired, but she was listening.
I want he hesitated, when youre angry, for you not to say I dont understand anything. I do understand. Maybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I just clam up anything I say can only be wrong.
The timer chimed again. He jerked, as if surfacing from deep water.
They sat in silence. The telly now off, some gentle hum coming from the fridge or perhaps the radiators.
Its odd, she said at last, like rehearsing for something.
As if were not husband and wife, but he searched for the word. Patients.
She smiled crookedly. Well, patients then. Lets try this for a month. Once a week.
He shrugged. A month isnt a sentence.
She nodded, gathering the timer, and carried it to the kitchen. He watched her go, thinking oddly how this timer had become a new fixture in their home.
On Saturday, they went to the grocers. She led with the trolley, he followed, ticking things off: milk, chicken, rice.
Grab some tomatoes, would you? she called, not looking back.
He selected a few, placing them into a bag, and caught himself thinking, I feel that tomatoes are heavy, and snorted.
Whats funny? she turned around.
Practising, he replied, my new way of phrasing things.
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth quirked at the corners.
You dont have to do it in public, she said, although maybe you should.
They passed the biscuit aisle. He reached automatically for her favourite kind, then remembered what shed said about sugar and her blood pressure. His hand paused.
Go on, she said, noticing his hesitation. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.
He put the packet in the trolley.
I he started, then stopped.
What is it? she asked.
I know how much you do, he breathed, staring at the price tag. Thats for Thursday.
She looked at him with greater attention, then nodded.
Ill count that, she said.
The second conversation went worse.
He was fifteen minutes late, having been held up by work and traffic, then a phone call from their son. She was already waiting, timer on the table, her notebook alongside.
Ready? she asked, no greeting.
Just a moment. He took off his coat, hung it over a chair, poured himself water in the kitchen, then returned. He sat, feeling her gaze prick his neck.
You dont have to do this, she said. If youre not interested, just say.
I am, he replied, though a part of him resisted. Just had a rough day.
So have I, she replied shortly. But I turned up on time.
He clenched his glass. All right, he said. Go on.
She set the timer for ten and began.
I feel like we live as neighbours. We talk bills, food, health, but almost never what we want. I cant remember the last time we planned a holiday together, rather than just going wherever we were invited.
He thought of her sisters cottage by the coast and last years group trip to Blackpool.
It matters to me to have not just duties, but plans together. Not vague: someday well go to the sea, but concrete here, then, for this long. And it shouldnt be just me pulling us along. It should be both of us.
He nodded, even though she was looking away.
I want I want for us to speak of intimacy not just when its missing. Feels strange to say, but I dont just miss that, but attention, hugs, touches not just when scheduled.
He went red to the ears. Part of him wanted to joke that folks their age shouldnt worry, but the words refused to come.
When you turn your back in bed, she went on, I think youve lost interest not just in that way, but in me, in general.
The timer ticked ever onwards. He avoided glancing at it, not wanting to see how long remained.
All right, she said as the signal sounded. Your turn.
He reached for the timer but his hand trembled. She wound it forward for him.
I feel, he began, that when we talk money, its as though Im just a cash machine. If I say no, you see me as mean, rather than worried.
She pursed her lips but remained silent.
It matters to me for you to know: Im scared of not having a safety net. I remember tallying every penny in the 90s, when things were tight. When you wave it off, I tense up inside.
He took a deep breath.
I want us to discuss big purchases beforehand, not just hear Its booked, its sorted after the fact. I dont mind spending, I just dont want surprises.
The timer chimed, and he felt relieved, as though let off a leash.
May I say something? she broke in. It breaks the rules, but I cant keep quiet.
He froze.
Go ahead, he said.
When you say Im a cash machine, her voice quivered, it makes me feel you think all I do is spend. But Im frightened too. Of falling ill, of you leaving, of being alone. Sometimes I buy things not because I want to spend your money, but to feel that we have a future. That were still making plans.
His mouth opened, but wisely, he stopped. They stared at each other across the low table like watching each other over a border.
That wasnt by the timer, he murmured.
I know, she replied. But Im not a machine.
He gave a rueful half-smile.
Maybe these techniques arent for real people, he mumbled.
Theyre for those who want to try again, she answered quietly.
He leaned back, feeling tired through and through.
Lets call it a night, he suggested.
She looked at the timer, then at him. Lets. But lets not call it failure just a note in the margin.
He nodded. She placed the timer on the tables edge, as if leaving the door open for another try.
That night, he lay awake for a long time. She lay with her back to him. He reached out, meaning to rest a hand on her shoulder, and hesitated, her words about feeling like a flatmate circling his head.
He withdrew his hand, rolled onto his back, and stared into the darkness.
The third conversation happened unexpectedly early, on the bus.
They were on their way to the surgery: he for an ECG, she for some blood tests. The bus was crowded, they stood holding onto the rail. She was silent, looking out of the window; he watched her profile.
Are you angry? he asked.
No, she replied. Im thinking.
What about?
That were getting older, she answered, still gazing outside. And if we dont learn how to talk now, soon well have no energy left to try.
He wanted to say he was still managing fine, but the words halted in his throat. He remembered how out of breath hed been yesterday, up the stairs.
Im frightened, he said before he realised it. That Ill end up in hospital and youll visit, bringing me sandwiches and just be angry with me.
She turned toward him.
I wouldnt be angry, she said. Id be frightened too.
He nodded.
That evening, they sat down on the settee; the timer was already on the table. She set two mugs of tea beside it and sat opposite.
Lets start with you tonight, she suggested. I had my say on the bus.
He sighed, set the timer for ten.
I feel, he said, that when you talk about being tired, I immediately feel accused. Even if you dont mean it. I start defending myself before youve even finished.
She nodded.
It matters to me to learn how to listen not just defend. But I dont know how. As a boy, I was taught if youre in the wrong, youll be punished. So when you say youre not all right, I hear, youve failed.
Hed never said that aloud before.
I want us to agree: when you speak about how you feel, it doesnt mean Im automatically guilty. And if I do get it wrong, please be specific: yesterday, today not every time.
The timer ticked on. She listened, without butting in.
All right, he said as the timer sounded. Your turn.
She turned the dial.
I feel, she spoke slowly, that Ive been carrying on in get on with it mode for years. For the children, for you, for my parents. When you go silent, it feels like its all left to me.
He remembered last year, her mothers funeral how much he kept to himself then.
It matters to me that you sometimes initiate a talk. Dont wait for me to explode. Just come and ask, How are you? or Lets sort it out. Because if its always down to me, I feel like a nag.
He nodded.
I want us to agree two things. First: we dont discuss serious matters when one of us is tired or upset. Not in passing, not between doors or on the stairs. If need be, we postpone.
He watched her face, taking in every word.
And second, she went on, we dont raise our voices in front of the children. I slip sometimes, I know, but I dont want them to see us at each others throats.
The timer beeped, but she pressed on.
Thats it Im done, she added quickly.
He smiled at the edge of his mouth.
Thats not in the rules, he pointed out.
But its life, she countered.
He turned off the timer.
I agree, he said. With both points.
She relaxed, ever so slightly.
And I I want one rule for myself.
Whats that? she was cautious.
If we dont finish in our ten minutes, he said, we dont keep the row going all night. We leave it till next Thursday. No long-drawn war.
She considered this.
Lets give it a go, she said. But if somethings urgent?
If its urgent, we sort it but without pouring petrol on the flames.
She snorted.
Agreed, she said.
Between their talks, life carried on as before.
In the mornings, he made himself coffee, she fried eggs. Every now and then hed do the washing up without being told. She noticed, though she didnt always say so. Evenings brought telly dramas theyd argue over whose side to take, and sometimes shed want to draw a parallel to their lives, but would remember their rule, saving it for Thursday.
One day, she was at the hob, stirring soup, when he came up and slipped his arm around her waist. No reason at all.
Whats this for? she asked, not turning around.
Nothing, he replied. Just practising.
Practising what? she asked, surprised.
Touch, he said. So its not always on the schedule.
She gave a crooked little laugh, but didnt move away.
Ill count that, she said.
After a month, they sat again on the settee, the timer between them.
Shall we continue? he asked.
What do you think? she replied.
He glanced at the white, round device, at her hands, at his knees.
I think yes, he said. Were not there yet.
Well never be there, she shrugged. Its not an exam. More like brushing teeth.
He snorted.
Romantic comparison.
But it gets the point across, she replied.
She set the timer and placed it back on the table.
Lets not be so strict tonight, she suggested. If we wander off, we can come back.
Lets not overdo it, he agreed.
She drew a deep breath.
I feel like its gotten easier. Not always, but Im not so invisible. Youre talking, youre asking I see it.
He flushed a little.
It matters to me that we keep this up, even when things feel lighter. That we dont go back to bottling things up until we burst.
He nodded.
I want us to be able to say, a year from now: weve become more honest. Not perfect, not argument-free, just more open.
The timer ticked on. He listened and realised he didnt want to joke it away.
Thats it, she finished as the bell rang. Your turn.
He took the timer, wound it forward:
I feel more frightened now. It used to be easy to hide behind silence, but now I have to talk. I worry Ill say the wrong thing, or hurt you.
She listened, head tilted slightly.
It matters to me that you remember: Im not the enemy. When I talk of my fears, its not blame its just me.
He paused.
I want us to keep this rule. Once a week honest, no blaming. Even if we slip up now and then. Let it be our shared pledge.
The timer chimed. He turned it off before it could ring again.
They sat quietly. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Somewhere nearby, neighbours laughed and the front door slammed.
You know, she said, I kept thinking we needed some huge confession, like in films. That itd change everything. But really
We just take it a bit at a time, he finished.
She nodded. Bit by bit.
He looked at her the lines on her face still there, the tiredness too, but something else had crept in behind her eyes. If not happiness, perhaps attention.
Lets have tea, he suggested.
Lets, she agreed.
She picked up the timer and set it by the sugar bowl, leaving it in plain sight. He filled the kettle, struck a match for the hob.
Ive got a doctors appointment after work next Thursday, she said, pressing her palms to the table. I might be late.
Well move it to Friday, then, he replied. No point talking when youre exhausted.
She gave him a warm smile.
Deal, she said.
He opened the cupboard, fetched two mugs, and set them on the table. The kettle began to rumble.
Where should I put the salt? he asked suddenly, remembering that first row.
She turned, spotted the jar in his hand.
Where I look for it, she answered by habit, then caught herself and added, Second shelf, left side.
He placed the jar where she asked.
Got it, he said.
She stepped close, touched his shoulder.
Thank you for asking, she said softly.
He nodded. The kettle roared, and the timer waited silently for its next Thursday now not a stranger, but part of their home at last.
