It was funny, the things you took for granted, he thought, staring at the sink.
Plates piled precariously, leaning Piza-like. Cups were brown with rings and grinds. Bowls sported continents of mold, growing towards each other with aspirations of Pangea.
She had always been the one to do the washing up. He always said he’d do it, mumbled empty promises, but he knew if he waited long enough, she’d take care of it with little more than a sigh.
What, he wondered, did it say about him that this was the first time he’d really missed her?
Word Count: 97