dishwasher

“Work!” I bellowed, giving the dishwasher a resounding thump.

The dishwasher failed to comply.

“Work, you bastard!” I iterated, opening the dishwasher door and slamming it shut again.

The dishwasher rumbled thoughtfully, as if processing my request. Then it fell silent again.

“Why won’t you work? Why is everything so hard?” I asked, my voice trembling.

The dishwasher refrained from answering either question. The second of these, admittedly, was a little unfair, and I wasn’t really expecting an answer.

“…,” I said, and opened the door again. I pressed a few of the buttons, waited for the beeping to subside, and then closed the door again.

“…,” said the dishwasher.

I decided to change my tactics.

“…Please work?” I asked, in as servile a voice as I was able.

With lordly composure the dishwasher surveyed my harried face, my rumpled clothes. Its adamantine face remained unmoved, and it kept its peace.

There was silence for a time.

“I hate you,” I said softly. Perhaps it did not wish to encourage me, or was disappointed in my shallow conduct. Whatever the case the dishwasher decided to keep silent.

“I… I spoke to my step-mum earlier,” I continued quietly. I did not wish to speak, but it had to be said. Things could not carry on the way they were.

“She said… she said that it’ll cost an awful lot to get a guy out to look at you, and with all the money we’re spending on the bathroom…”

I waited. Nothing. I began to grow angry, left here in stillness.

“She said we should just get another!” I blurted. “I can just buy one and she’ll refund me!”

It studied me. I began to realise that it did not take me seriously. The threat had gone practically unnoticed.

“It shouldn’t finish like this. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way.”

The dishwasher clunked. It was a final exclamation on everything that had happened. There was nothing left to say.