I’ve never seen anything like this.

Oh sure, I’ve seen Gwen at our kitchen sink every night for the last two years. She likes to get the dishes washed before dinner. Every previous night looked like a graceful dance – Gwen swirls a rag over pots, pans, and whatever else before the dishware lands in certain stacks on the other side of the sink. The job appears absent-minded, like she’s just killing time.

Tonight though, this – this is a battle.

Gwen looms over the sink, which is impressive for her small frame. She looks like Gandalf facing a fire monster. Except, Gwen doesn’t stand in defiance. Instead, she hunches: She’s bent at the waist over the sink as if the dishes might escape. I don’t know how she’s keeping her midnight black hair out of the water.

She starts with a dishrag on a sauce cup. The rag might as well attempt a passage through that cup. Gwen grinds it into the cup with her whole body. I can’t tell if she’s physically or mentally willing the rag to remove the contents of that cup.

Then, she finds a blackened skillet. She huffs – No, she growls at the skillet. It’s the kind of sound used only for one’s nemesis. The rag gets tossed into the sink with a visible splash, and a scraper appears like a sword drawn from a scabbard.

Gwen drags the scraper across the skillet, and the sound makes me wish I were deaf. Chunks of grime sail in all directions from each stab of the scraper. Gwen might be pulling layers of Teflon off at this point, and I start to feel bad for the skillet in spite of cheering for my wife.

Well, that’s enough watching; I’ve got to get in there. After all, if this is her battle, it’s my duty to fight alongside her. I can, at least, rinse the dishes in the other side of the sink, right?

I walk across our tile floor, but Gwen never looks up. The spray hose becomes my weapon. That skillet lands in the middle of my efforts on a measuring spoon. 

Immediately, I turn my attention to the skillet; it seems to be the particular evil. I want it gone now. 

Gwen snatches the skillet from me without a word, eye contact, or even the slightest acknowledgement of my presence. The scraper with a baking sheet splashes into her side of the sink, and the rag reappears. The rag begins its assault on the skillet.

Her black hair slides over her ear, across her shoulder, and hides her face. She’s cut me out! I’m not allowed in this fight. If she’s going to take this on her own, what can I do?

“No,” I think, “we fight together. I just need to get back in there.” My fingers curl into fists, but my step forward hesitates.

No, that’s not my place for now. There must be something else, so I relax my fists before padding the air with my palms. The dishes are not my problem. Let me go find my place.

I look around the kitchen, and then, I see them. Two plates sit between the stove and the sink. In fact, they seem to be in the exact middle distance. They are wholly untouched by the battle at the sink. Could I find something to fill them? 

If so, I best start my quest at the fridge. This is a terrible place to start: I don’t see anything that will help. Sure, we have a few condiments, but a grocery trip is certainly in our future. Oh wait, two fish filets sit beneath a lemon behind milk and orange juice. The expiration date on the fish looks good, so I pull it.

A twist to the right brings me to our pantry. I should’ve started here. There’s almost too many options, but a couple cans of beets stand at the front. I grab them and some spices before sliding to the counter behind Gwen. 

After opening the cans, I pour in precisely measured spices and shake them. I spread the beets on a baking pan from the cabinet.

While the oven preheats, I prepare the fish. Blessedly, Gwen surrenders the skillet, so I grab it. 

Gwen looks up from the sink as soon as my hand wraps around the skillet. Her first glance in my direction is only a wish that she could use the scraper on me. Her clear-sky blue eyes flash between the skillet and me. Still, we only have one skillet, so I’ll have to apologize later.

Gwen follows the skillet back to the stove, while clinging to the rediscovered baking sheet. She shakes her head with a “you best be glad there’s more dishes” tone and returns to her washing.

The beets go into the oven shortly before the skillet is ready for the fish. Unfortunately, the oven timer sounds before I finish the fish. Somehow, the timer fades while I focus on the fish. 

When I’m satisfied with the fish, I reach for the plates, but I grab only air. The plates are gone. What happened? I move the skillet off the heat and turn around. 

Gwen stands in the middle of the kitchen holding both plates – half filled with beets. Now, she’s the very statue of serenity: Her hair cascades behind her shoulders; the blue of her eyes softens like a sunny sky, and her shoulders barely tense enough to hold the plates.

She’s finally looking at me. Her gaze is one of gratitude mixed with satisfaction. She won her battle while appreciating my help with the war. Her arms slide forward with the plates, so I take them. Each plate gets a fish, and Gwen moves them for their best look beside the beets. 

She takes a plate, before I take a plate. Then, we take each other’s hand and walk to the dining room – together.