The Drowned City of Dishes

The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and yesterday’s regrets, a familiar perfume in their small house. Arthur scraped his fork against the ceramic plate, a thin, grating sound that pulled Eleanor’s gaze from the window. Rain lashed against the glass, just like it had for three days straight, blurring the world outside into a watercolor smear.

"Still thinking about it, you know," Arthur mumbled, not looking at her. He pushed a half-eaten sausage link around his plate, a mournful little boat in a sea of congealed egg. Eleanor just sighed, a sound that started deep in her chest and barely escaped her lips. Forty years of marriage, and she knew that sigh better than her own heartbeat.

"The city," he finally said, louder now, clearing his throat. "The one made of glass. Underwater." He looked up, a spark in his tired eyes, the kind of spark that used to set her heart alight, now just a brief, unsettling flare. "Imagine, El. All those spires, those impossible bridges, shimmering under the ocean. Like a giant, silent jewel." He gestured vaguely with his fork, nearly flicking a piece of sausage onto the table.

Eleanor picked up her own plate, scraped the last bit of egg into the trash, and carried it to the sink. The faucet dripped, a relentless *plink, plink, plink* that usually drove her mad. Today, it was just another sound. "Arthur," she said, her voice flat, "we haven't talked about that silly book in twenty years. And last I checked, we're not planning any deep-sea expeditions to Atlantis." She ran the hot water, steam clouding her glasses.

He pushed his chair back, the legs groaning against the worn linoleum. "It's not about an expedition, Eleanor. It's about… what it represented. Remember? Back when we first read it. We swore we'd build our own city, transparent, honest, beautiful." He stood by the doorway, leaning against the frame, a posture of yearning she’d seen a thousand times. He looked a bit like a forgotten statue, waiting for the sea to reclaim him.

She remembered. Oh, she remembered. College kids, sharing a cheap pizza on a floor littered with textbooks, her head on his shoulder, his hand tracing shapes on her arm. He'd read her passages from that old, yellowed paperback, his voice low and full of wonder. The glass city, for them, wasn’t a real place. It was their future, bright and clear, every corner visible, every truth laid bare. No hidden currents, no murky depths.

Now, she scrubbed at a stubborn bit of egg yolk, her knuckles white. The city they built, their life together, it wasn't glass. It was old brick and cracked plaster, with plenty of hidden corners and dark, dusty spaces. There were parts of it, parts of *them*, she hadn't looked at in years. Maybe didn't want to. And some parts, she suspected, Arthur hadn't seen either, though he talked about transparency.

"It was a nice thought," she conceded, her voice softer than she intended. She hated how easily he could still pull that old ache out of her. "A pretty dream." She rinsed the plate, stacked it carefully in the drying rack. The steam from the water warmed her face. "Dreams don't pay the mortgage, Arthur. Dreams don't fix the leaky roof or get the car inspected."

He sighed, a heavier sound than hers. "I know that, El. God, I know that. But don't you ever just… wish? For something more than just… this?" He swept his hand around the small kitchen, his gaze lingering on the chipped paint, the overflowing basket of mail, the 'honey-do' list tacked to the fridge, a long, grim scroll of undone tasks.

She dried her hands on a ragged tea towel. "This is our more, Arthur. This is what we built. It ain't glass, no. It's solid. It's got roots. And frankly, I'm tired of hearing about some fantastical drowned city when the drains are clogged." Her voice was sharp, a little too sharp. She immediately regretted it, saw the familiar hurt flicker across his face.

He pushed off the doorframe, walked slowly to the small kitchen table, and sat back down, picking at the leftover crumbs. The rain outside hammered harder, as if trying to break in. She watched his shoulders slump, the way he picked at his thumbnail. He wasn't trying to escape *her*, not really. He was just trying to escape the dull ache of the everyday, just like she was. They just had different ways of doing it.

She walked over to the table, pulled out the chair opposite him, and sat down. The silence between them wasn't angry anymore, just heavy, thick with unspoken words and forty years of shared breathing. "Remember the stained-glass lamp we got on our honeymoon?" she asked, her voice quiet. "The one that broke when the cat knocked it off the dresser last year?"

Arthur looked up, a faint frown on his brow. "Yeah, I remember. You loved that thing. I kept meaning to glue it back together." He didn't sound accusatory, just tired. "Never got around to it."

"No," she said, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "You didn't. But every time the light hit those broken pieces, it still made pretty colors on the wall. Different colors, maybe. But still pretty." She reached across the worn table, her hand hesitantly finding his. His fingers were rough, calloused, familiar. She squeezed, a gentle pressure.

He met her gaze, and in his eyes, she saw not the distant, shimmering vision of a sunken city, but the familiar landscape of their shared life, imperfect, solid, and still, somehow, standing.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a low rumble. He squeezed her hand back, his grip sure and warm. "Yeah, they did."