dishes

      I stand by the sink, sweater sleeves rolled up. Yesterday's hair falls around my shoulders as I scrub the grease off a glass pan.

      Nathanael sits across from me and forks another piece of caramel covered bread into his mouth. A steady stream of water slips down the left drain.

      "Women are like pans." Nathanael sips his milk, white dripping down the side of the orange cup.

      "Oh?" I raise an eyebrow and lean the pan against other drying dishes. "And how is that?"

      "You washed it in one sink and then the other sink again. And girls wash their hair twice." Nathanael kicks a foot against his chair.

      I pull the drain and watch the water as the inches drop. "Hm," I said.