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Back to de Kitchen
The plates arrived, coated with sauces, spilled wine, bones, pieces of gristle, crumbs; the usual detritus. The aftermath of another meal. Quickly, I sorted the plates into two kinds: the ones with edible scraps and those without. The latter went into the sink, already filled with scalding hot water. I picked over the remains, setting aside some greenery for Jehanne, who, lately, has been looking rather peaked. She could use the vitamins. There seemed to be more edible scraps than usual. Our masters were feeling generous. Having stuffed my mouth with as much as I could given the time available, I slipped the remaining plates into the water and swirled it around with the scrubbing-brush. The plastic tongs floated near the surface. I always took care to put them in last, so I could use them to retrieve items further down. Jehanne rushed in, carrying the stack of bar-stools which they perched on while putting the food in their mouths (they didn't eat the food; they chewed it, swallowed it, mixed it with some sort of dissolving element and messily excreted it, giving Wes something to clean up). She pushed the chairs into a corner and snatched up the handful of scraps I'd saved for her. "Thanks," she managed, chewing noisily, out of breath, before running off to make their beds. I could see them through the open kitchen doorway, playing billiards. Never missing a shot. One of them left the table and came over to watch me clean up. It was never the same one as the previous night, and I'd kept track of which one supervised me, hoping to find some pattern over a period of seventy weeks. If there was a pattern, it was too subtle for me. I gingerly fished out the tongs, the water searing my fingertips. After shaking them dry, I used them to retrieve a champagne glass from the suds. I brushed it clean, occasionally dipping it into the water again before rinsing it under the cold tap and setting it to dry in the rack. There were some coffee mugs, their edges chipped from where they'd been bitten, the insides thick with some dark brown residue with the consistency of semi- coagulated blood. It took a lot of scrubbing to remove, and I couldn't avoid being scalded again before they were clean enough to dry. It was watching me the whole time, its eyes following my hands as they moved each item from the water to the rack. Underneath the mugs were the dinner-plates. I used the tongs to push one edge of the uppermost plate down until the other side poked up out of the water, where I could safely grab it and pull it out. If you touched the plate for more than a few seconds, you realised how much heat it had absorbed from the water; the ceramic wasn't as good when it came to conducting heat, I suppose, but it stored it for longer. I alternated between holding the plate out of the water and dropping it back while I scrubbed at the caked-on stains. They looked like chocolate sauce, although the steam that wafted up to my nostrils wasn't sweet. The water was beginning to cool down; I could almost put my hand in and take the plates out without flinching, when it leaned over and turned on the hot-water tap again. I almost jerked my head around to look at it, but managed to contain myself. I could see its reflection in the bright chrome of the tap; this one looked female. After turning on the tap, the hand snaked back and dangled by her side, limp. Lifeless. I stood there helplessly and watched the steam rise from the sink. It would be too hot for me to touch again, but I wondered when I would dare to turn the tap off. Slowly, I turned to face her, with an enquiring expression on my face. I didn't dare speak, but I did manage to convey the idea that I was waiting for her to tell me when to turn off the tap. She stood there, staring back at me with a complete absence of expression. I could imagine the water level rising to the point where it would slop over onto the floor... maybe this is what she was after - giving me something extra to clean up. She simply stood there, not even showing that she realised what was going on. In an abstract sort of way, she was quite attractive; to be honest, she was perfect. Beautiful, her features regularly spaced with just a hint of exaggeration in the size of her eyes, the puffiness of her upper lip, the length of the jet-black lashes, the waves of her golden-red hair. She looked like a Japanese cartoon character brought to life. I could hear the water sloshing around as it neared overflow level when her pupils dilated. That was the only change she showed, so I took it for an answer, turned around and shut off the hot water. It was hotter than before. I continued to use the tongs to pick the plates up; eventually, I realised that only the cutlery remained. I hated this part. I had to reach down into the hot water, fish around for the plug and yank it out. I used the tongs to clear the knives and forks away from the plug, but they were too clumsy to pick up the plug themselves. I didn't cry out. After the last fork had been rinsed and dried, I turned around once more. she was still there, watching. Her eyes darted over to the racks of plates and cups, darted back to me. She nodded once. I kneeled down and she smashed her hand into my face, breaking open my lip, delivering a blow that only a machine could. She turned and left, silently, as only a machine could. I crouched on the kitchen tile, holding one sleeve to my mouth so that no blood would get on the floor. They were machines; they didn't need to eat the food we prepared for them, they didn't need to sleep in the beds we made for them. They didn't grow tired and hungry and delirious from lack of sleep as we did. I wondered why i kept going, when it was so easy to give up. Steven did; he refused to clean up after a particularly messy party, and they'd kicked him to death. I remember spending all night scrubbing his blood-stains out of the carpet. I hate this. |
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