The Timer on the Table
Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, not looking up from the saucepan.
He stood, still holding the little jar, staring at the shelf. The salt was right where it always was, next to the sugar bowl.
Where did you want it? he asked, cautiously.
Not where I want itwhere I look for it. Ive told you already.
Itd be easier if you just said where, rather than making me play a guessing game, he replied, the familiar irritation quietly rising inside him.
She flicked off the hob with a clang, slammed the lid down on the pan, and turned to face him.
Im tired of repeating myself. Sometimes, itd just be nice if things were where I needed them for once.
So Ive done it wrong, again, he muttered, returning the salt to the shelf, just slightly more to the right.
She was about to answer but instead banged the cupboard door and swept out of the kitchen. He stood there holding a spoon, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. He sighed, tasted the soup, sprinkled in a bit more salt, almost absently.
An hour later, they ate in silence. The news rumbled on the television in the sitting room, its glow reflected in the glass front of the cabinet. She picked at her food, rarely meeting his eye. He poked half-heartedly at his meatball. He was bored of the pattern: something minor, a dig, his retort, her silence.
Is this it? Is this how were going to live now? she asked suddenly.
He looked up.
What do you mean?
I mean, she said, setting her fork down, you do something, I get irritable, you get offended. Round and round.
Well, what else is there? he tried to joke. Were keeping up British traditions.
She didnt smile.
I read something, she said after a moment. About talking, properly talking, once a week. Using a timer.
He blinked.
A timer?
Ten minutes each. I talk, then you talk. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, Its important to me, I want. The other person just listens. No arguments, no defending, just listen.
You got this off the internet?
From a book. Doesnt matter. I want to try it.
He reached for his glass, buying a moment.
And what if I dont want to? he asked, trying not to sound too sharp.
Then well just keep arguing about the salt, she said evenly. And I dont want that.
He studied her face. The lines around her mouth had deepened over the years. He wasnt sure when, exactly. She looked exhausted, not just by the day, but as if from an entire lifetime.
All right, he said. But I should warn you, Im no good at all these techniques.
You dont have to be good at it, she smiled, wearily. You just have to be honest.
On Thursday night, he sat on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to read the headlines. Inside, he felt the same sensation as before a dentist appointment: a knot of reluctant anticipation.
There it was, a plain white kitchen timer on the coffee table between thema stranger in the sitting room. Usually she used it for baking pies. Now, it was between them, like a silent witness.
She brought in two mugs of tea, set them down, and sat opposite. She wore an old knitted jumper, baggy at the elbows, her hair stuck back in a ponytail.
Well, she said. Shall we?
Is there a schedule? he tried to joke.
Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. If theres more, well wait till next time.
He nodded, set his phone aside. She picked up the timer, turned the dial to 10, and pressed the button. The faint ticking began.
I feel she started, then paused.
He instinctively braced for you never or you always, muscles preparing for a blow. Instead, hands clasped, she continued.
I feel like Im the wallpaper. That our home, the meals, your shirts, our dayseveryone assumes theyll just continue, forever, unless I stop, and if I did, things would fall apart and no one would notice till it was all too late.
He wanted to say that he noticed, that maybe he just didnt say so, that perhaps she never let him do anything. But he remembered the rule and bit his lip.
It matters to me she glanced at him, then looked away, that the things I do are seen. I dont want praise or daily thanks, just sometimes for you to see more than the soup tastes nice. To see what it takes.
He swallowed. The timer ticked. He wanted to protest: he was tired too, work was no easier. But the rules were clearno interruptions.
I want She sighed. I want not to be automatically responsible for everything: your health, the family holidays, the kids. I want, sometimes, to be allowed to be vulnerable, not just to hold it together.
He looked at her handsthe wedding band he bought for their tenth anniversary now pressing into the skin. He remembered how anxious hed been getting the size right.
The timer beeped. She jumped and gave a short, nervous laugh.
Thats it, she said. My ten minutes.
I he cleared his throat. Me now.
She nodded and twisted the timer back to 10, gently nudging it to him.
He felt like a schoolboy about to stand at the front of the class.
I feel He realised how silly it sounded. I feel that at home, Id rather hide sometimes. Because if I get something wrong, its instantly seen. And if I do things right, its justnormal.
She nodded softly, not interrupting.
Its important to me, he went on, choosing his words, that when I come back from work and crash into my chair, its not treated like a crime. I dont sit at work all day eitherIm exhausted there too.
He caught her gaze: tired, but open.
I want He stalled. I want, when youre upset, not to hear you dont understand anything. I understandmaybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I want to shut down. Because any answer will be the wrong one.
The timer beeped. He jerked, as if pulled from deep water.
They sat in silence. The television was off and, from the next room, came a low humthe fridge or the central heating.
It feels strange, she said. Like a rehearsal.
Like were not husband and wife, but he searched for a word. Patients.
She half-smiled.
Well, if were patients, lets agree to at least try this for a monthonce a week.
He shrugged.
A month isnt a sentence.
She nodded and picked up the timer, carrying it to the kitchen. He watched her go and, oddly, felt as if theyd acquired a new piece of furniture.
On Saturday they went to Tesco. She pushed the trolley ahead, and he trailed behind, ticking off milk, chicken, pasta.
Get some tomatoes, she called over her shoulder.
He went to the box, picked a few, popped them in the bag. He caught himself about to say, I feel like the tomatoes are heavy, and chuckled.
Whats funny? she turned.
Practising, he replied. My new style of talking.
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curled.
No need for that in public, she muttered. Although maybe it wouldnt hurt.
They walked past the biscuit aisle. Instinctively he reached for her favourite, but remembered her saying something about sugar and her blood pressure. He hesitated.
Go on, she said, spotting his pause. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.
He dropped a packet in the trolley.
I he began, then stopped.
What? she asked.
I know you do a lot, he managed, staring at the label. Thats for Thursday.
She looked at him, really looked, and nodded.
Ill mark it down, she said.
Their second conversation didnt go well.
He was late to the sofa by a quarter of an hourwork dragged, traffic was awful, and their son rang. She was already waiting, the timer and a grid-lined notepad at her side.
Ready? she asked, without greeting.
One minute, he tossed his jacket on a chair, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, then came back, feeling her eyes on his back.
You dont have to do this, she said. If youre not interested, say it.
I am, he replied, though he felt nothing but resistance. Its just been a heavy day.
So was mine, she cut in. But I got here on time.
He gripped his glass.
All right, he said. Go on.
She turned the dial.
I feel, she began, like were housemates. We talk about bills, shopping lists, the doctor, but not about what we actually want. I cant remember the last time we planned a holiday together, rather than just tagging along with someone else.
He thought about her sisters place in Kent, about last years holiday camp, booked through her union.
Its important to me, she went on, that we share plans, not just chores. Not maybe well go to the seaside one day, but actually: this place, that week, for that long. As a teamnot just me dragging us along.
He nodded, although she wasnt looking right at him.
I want she hesitated. I want to talk about sex, not just when were not having it. Its embarrassing to say, butIm not just missing, well, sex, but the cuddles, the casual toucheswithout a timetable.
He felt his ears burn. He wanted to joke, in our age group, hardly the main event, but he couldnt quite say it.
When you turn away in bed, she said quietly, I feel like Ive stopped mattering to you. Not just as a woman, asanyone.
The timer ticked. He tried not to look at it, to avoid seeing how much time was left.
Thats it, she said, as the buzz sounded. Your turn.
He reached for the timer, but his hand wavered. She dialed it and passed it over.
I feel, he started, that our chats about money make me feel like a cashpoint. If I say no to something, you take it as stinginess, not fear.
She pressed her lips together but stayed quiet.
It matters to me, he continued, that you know Im afraid well lose our safety net. I remember counting pennies in the nineties, and when you say, oh stop fussing, I freeze up inside.
He took a long breath.
I want us to discuss big buys properly. Not as a fait accompli: Ive booked it, ordered it, sorted it. Im not against spending, I just hate surprises.
The timer beeped. He breathed out, relieved.
Can I say something? she blurted. Its not in the rules, but I cant wait.
He froze.
Go on, he said.
When you say Im a cashpoint, her voice quivered, it sounds like you think all I do is spend. Im scared too. Im scared Ill fall ill, that youll leave, that Ill be alone. Sometimes I buy things, not to spend your money, but to remind myself theres still a future. That we can still plan something.
He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. They stared at each other across the tablelike opposing sides.
Thats not by the timer, he murmured.
I know, she replied. But Im not a robot.
He gave a joyless laugh.
Maybe this technique isnt made for real people, he muttered.
Its for those who want to try again, she replied.
He slumped back on the sofa, bone-tired.
Lets call it a night, he suggested.
She glanced at the timer, then at him.
Fine. But lets not call this a failure. Justa note in the margin.
He nodded. She moved the timer but didnt take it away, just left it at the edge of the tableas though leaving the door ajar.
That night, he tossed for ages. She lay beside him, back turned. He reached out, wanting to rest his hand on her shoulder, but stopped short. Her words echoed: I feel like your flatmate.
He quietly withdrew his hand, rolled onto his back, and stared at the darkness above.
Their third session came a week later, but it started on the bus.
They were heading to the GP: he needed an ECG, she had blood tests booked. The double-decker was crammed; both stood holding a rail. She stared out the grubby window; he watched her reflection.
Are you angry? he asked.
No, she said. Just thinking.
About what?
About getting older. She didnt look at him. If we cant talk things through now, soon we wont have the energy to.
He thought of denying it, insisting he was fine, but bit his tongue. He remembered wheezing up the stairs yesterday, no lift.
Im scared, he said, surprising himself. That Ill end up in hospital and youll visit with grapes and stew in silence.
She turned towards him.
I wont be angry, she said. Ill be worried.
He nodded.
That evening, they settled on the sofa. The timer was already on the table. She brought two mugs of tea and sat opposite.
Lets start with you tonight, she suggested. I did enough talking on the bus.
He exhaled, twisted the timer to 10.
I feel, he said, that when you talk about being tired, I instantly assume youre blaming me. Even when youre not. I start defending myself, before youve even finished.
She nodded.
Its important to me, he went on, to learn to actually hear younot just defend myself. But I never learnt how. My parents only ever said: If youre in trouble, youll be told off. So whenever you say youre struggling, I hear: Youre the problem.
Hed never said that beforeit felt strange.
I want us to agree that sharing feelings doesnt mean Im automatically at fault. And if I do something wrong, be specific: yesterday, now. Not always.
The timer ticked. She simply listened.
Thats time, he said quietly as the buzzer sounded. Your turn.
She dialed it.
I feel, she said slowly, like Ive been holding everything together for years. The kids, you, my parents. And when you clam up, I feel like Im shouldering it all alone.
He remembered when theyd buried her mother last yearhed hardly spoken then.
Its important to me, she continued, that you sometimes start a conversationnot wait for me to explode. Just come and say, How are you? or Shall we talk? Because if its always on me, I feelannoying.
He nodded.
I want us to agree on two things. She paused. First: we dont talk about the big stuff when one of us is too shattered or angrynot while running out the door, not between the hall and the lift. If we need to, we postpone.
He listened closely.
Second: we dont raise our voices in front of the children. I know I have, but I dont want them seeing us shout.
The timer beeped, but she pushed on.
Thats all, she finished quickly.
He smiled, just a flicker.
That wasnt by the book, he noted.
Its by life, she replied.
He reached over and switched the timer off.
I agree, he said. With both.
Her shoulders eased, just slightly.
And I, he added after a pause, have one request.
What is it? she asked, wary.
If we dont finish in the ten minutes, we dont argue about it all week. We leave itpick up next Thursday. So it doesnt just drag on forever.
She considered.
Lets try, she said. But what if its urgent?
If its urgent, we deal with it, he said. But not by pouring petrol on the fire.
She huffed a soft laugh.
Deal, she said.
Life between those conversations carried on as usual.
In the mornings, he made his coffee, she fried the eggs. Sometimes he washed up, even if she hadnt asked. She noticed, but didnt always say. At night, they watched the telly, arguing over whose character was more right. Occasionally, she almost said, Thats just like us, but caught herself and saved it for Thursday.
One day, she was stirring soup at the cooker when she felt his arms slip around her waist. Just because, for no reason at all.
Whats this? she asked, not turning.
Nothing, he replied. Im practising.
Practising what? she frowned.
Touching, he said simply. Not just by appointment.
She smirked but didnt move away.
Ill add it to your record, she said.
A month later, they sat again on the sofa, the timer between them.
Carrying on? he asked.
What do you think? she replied.
He looked at the white plastic, at her hands, at his own knees.
I think so, he said. Were not done learning.
We never will be, she said with a shrug. Its not an exam. Its more like brushing your teeth.
He snorted.
Very romantic, he teased.
But you get the idea, she replied.
She spun the timer to 10 and set it down.
Lets be a bit softer this time, she suggested. If we drift off, well find our way back.
No need to go overboard, he agreed.
She breathed in.
I feel, she said, that things are lighter. Not solved, butless invisible. You talk more, ask me things without prompting. I see that.
He blushed slightly.
It matters to me, she said, that we dont drop this if things improve. That we dont slip back to silence until the next explosion.
He nodded.
I want, a year from now, to be able to say: Were more honest. Not perfect, not argument-freejust a bit more genuine.
The timer ticked. He listened, feeling unusually unwilling to crack any jokes.
All right, she stopped as it beeped. Your turn.
He turned the dial, set the timer.
I feel, he admitted, more afraid now. Hiding behind silence was easier. Now I have to speak up, and Im terrified Ill get it wrong, or hurt you.
She listened, head slightly tilted.
It matters to me, he said, that you remember: Im not the enemy. My worries arent an attack on you. Theyre just about me.
He paused.
I want us to stick to this ruleonce a week, honest, no blame. Even if we slip up. Lets keep it as our own contract.
The timer buzzed. He flipped it off before it could sound again.
They sat quietly. From the kitchen came a clickthe kettle switching off. Laughter filtered through the walls from next door; a front door slammed above.
You know, she said, I always thought wed have one big breakthroughlike a film, everything changes at once. But it turns out
We just do a little, week by week, he finished.
She nodded.
Little by little.
He looked at her face. The lines were still there, the tiredness too. But there was something else now, something new in her gaze. Maybe it was attention.
Shall we have some tea? he suggested.
Lets, she agreed.
She picked up the timer and took it to the kitchen, setting it beside the sugar bowl without tucking it away. He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil.
Ive got the doctor Thursday after work, she said, bracing herself on the table. I might be late.
Well do Friday then, he replied. No important chats when youre utterly knackered.
She met his eyes, and smiled.
Deal, she said.
He reached up, opened the cupboard for two mugs, set them down on the table. The kettle started to rumble.
Where do you want the salt? he asked suddenly, thinking of that first conversation.
She turned, spotted the jar in his hand.
Where I look for it, she replied automatically, then paused and clarified, Second shelf, left side.
He placed it exactly there.
Got it, he responded.
She stepped closer, touched his shoulder.
Thank you for asking, she murmured.
He nodded. The kettle hissed louder. The timer waited quietly on the table, ready for its next Thursday.
