Three days of relentless dishwashing tested Jonass patience.
He spent three full days scrubbing pots and pans, yet not a single plate or cup emerged spotless. So, after work he didnt bother changing out of his work clothes; he slipped on an apron and got back to the sink. He even tried to whip up a soup, having forgotten what a real one tastes like.
Food residues clung to the dishes so tightly that they needed to soak. About ten coffee cups were left unclean. Cant I at least wash one thing for myself? he muttered, feeling the ball of frustration rise in his throat. He wanted to eat, but the fridge held only a few cucumbers and an empty shelf. Suddenly, the scent of Rūtas pastries drifted in. Their home always smelled of baked goods because his wife loved cooking. Every time he came home, the kitchen was already filled with cinnamon or vanilla, the mixer humming, the oven ticking
Jonas now reminisced fondly about his wife. He believed she spent all her time in the kitchen and with the kidsnothing else mattered. She was always either doing the laundry, washing windows, or tidying the floors. In the summer, the kitchen turned into a fullblown canning factory, and Jonas never managed to bring the glasses to the stove.
One evening he returned from work to find Rūta, as usual, simmering something on the countertop. She sat on the edge of the table, habitually munching on apples while a concert played on the television.
Im leaving you, Jonas said calmly, without a greeting.
She flinched but didnt look up.
I have another woman, he continued. I love her and I cant keep deceiving you any longer.
Rūta set down her knife, turned slowly toward him, the steam from the pot curling around her face, and whispered obediently, Take one pastry; we wont finish them anyway.
Jonas, of course, didnt take the pastry, though he loved those filled with poppy seeds and nuts. He gathered the essentials and left for the woman who was nothing like Rūta. She never wore denim like Rūta; instead she favored short skirts, dresses, high heels, and spoke of going to a beauty salon as if it were a crucial business meeting. The world seemed to wait for her.
Rūta, on the other hand, never went to salons. She disliked wandering through shops or markets. When she needed something, she made a list, went out, and returned quickly with bags. She never read glossy womens magazines, drank coffee, dyed her hair, or exercised, yet she remained beautiful, tidy, and slenderlooking like a schoolgirl in tight jeans, a short top, and a tiny pynimėlis belt.
Jonas wanted a real woman by his side, and he found Audronė. Now he folds shirts, cooks, washes dishes, and at night dreams of Rūtas pastries and buns. Those dreams smell of vanilla and echo with Rūtas laughter.
After clearing the kitchen mess, Jonas entered the living room. Audronė lay on the sofa, propped elegantly on her elbows. A magazine rested in front of her, and three coffee cups stood on the side table.
Are you such a hero, my little bunny? his wife cooed, stretching her arms toward him. What would I do without you? she purred. I just got my manicurelook at these perfect nails, arent they? Come here, my love, let me hug you
Jonas felt irritation rise. Probably hunger, he thought, and headed back to the kitchen to peel potatoes.
