Chapter Text
He’s just a dishwasher, that’s all he is, because he does the dishes and what you do is who you are (that’s not what he remembers telling her, but then he clamps down on that before he can even think her name).
He has bruises and no idea where they come from. His teeth carry the memory of having been jarred and so he has to drink jasmine because anything stronger hurts. (Nothing can hurt as much as a foggy betrayal, or the sense that possibly he was the real traitor.)
But it doesn’t matter what he can and can’t eat or whether it hurts to sit, because he has a pile of dirty plates and one irritating speck of crumb cake cemented to the china with cherry filling. (Never mind that no tea table is complete without clutter, but this impossible task is easier than looking at someone who won’t look back.)
He knows that in a situation like this, he needs to be soft, because trying to scour the mess away will tear at everything surrounding the problem and solve absolutely nothing. (He closes his eyes and sees her so clearly, red halo, green whisper; and he is sorry, he is so sorry but he wishes he could understand what he’s sorry for.)
This isn’t working. He sets the plate down carefully, and buries his head in his hands. Somehow everything he does is wrong. (It wasn’t always, he thinks he remembers, there used to be lobster quadrilles and quests to discover sugar bowls. Back then, she smiled madly and just for him.)
There was a time when his biggest problems were crumbs in the butter and he still misses those days, sometimes, but he’s grown up. (Today, the dishes can wash themselves.)