The Half-Load Setting
There is one cup
in the dishwasher.
It has been there
since Sunday.
The manufacturer recommends
waiting for a full load.
There is a half-load setting.
I consider it
an admission of defeat.
Once, the kitchen produced
bowls of fossilised Weet-Bix,
glasses abandoned on the stairs,
a teaspoon in a shoe.
I complained about the waste.
The electricity. The water.
The apparent inability
of anyone to understand
how a dishwasher worked.
Nobody listened.
Every ruling was appealed.
The court was always full.
At work, I cut seventeen kilometres
from a delivery route.
They called it removing
waste.
The kitchen is now spotless.
No crumbs. No arguments.
No mysterious plates under the sofa.
No one asking where
their favourite cup is.
I know where
everything is.
Each evening I open the dishwasher
and inspect my white cup,
chipped below the handle.
I close the door again.
I tell myself I am saving water.
There are figures to support this.
The figures are impeccable.
But I keep opening the door
to see if anything else
has arrived.
Tonight I select Half Load
and press Start.
Even that overstates the case.
The cup rattles
against the empty rack.
Eleven litres.
Two hours and forty-eight minutes.
The next morning I return the cup
to the cupboard, then
take it down again
to make coffee.
The machine has performed flawlessly.