The Timer on the Coffee Table “You’ve put the salt in the wrong place again,” she said, not looking…

Timer on the Table

Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, eyes fixed on the saucepan.

He froze, jar in hand, staring at the shelf. The salt remained exactly where it always did, right by the sugar bowl.

Where should it go? he asked gingerly.

Not where its supposed to gowhere I look for it. Ive told you this already.

Itd be easier if you just told me, rather than making me guess, he replied, that familiar nettling of irritation curling inside him.

She turned off the hob with a clatter, banged on a lid, and spun round to face him.

Im tired of saying things over and over. Couldnt it justbe where its meant to be, for once?

So Im getting everything wrong, again, he concluded, sliding the salt further to the right on the same shelf.

Her mouth had opened, ready with a retort, but instead she slammed the cupboard and left the kitchen. He stood holding his spoon, straining to hear her footsteps along the hallway. With a sigh, he tasted the soup and, out of habit, added a pinch more salt.

An hour later, they ate in silence. The television droned out the news, its blue glow reflecting off the glass of the display cabinet. She ate slowly, gaze drifting past him. He toyed with his cutlet, aware theyd hoofed it down the well-worn track again: a trifling complaint, a sigh, a phrase, her silence.

Are we just going to go on like this forever? she asked, abruptly.

He looked up.

What do you mean?

I mean, she said, laying down her fork, everything you do annoys me, and then you get offended. Again and again. Round in circles.

How else, really? he forced a smile. Its tradition, isnt it?

She didnt smile in reply.

I read something, she said. About conversations. Once a week. With a timer.

He blinked.

With what?

With a timer. Ten minutes for me, ten for you. No you always or you never. Only I feel, its important to me, I want. And the other one just listens, doesnt interrupt or defend.

Thats from the internet, isnt it? he pressed.

From a book actually. Doesnt matter. Id like to try.

He reached for his glass and took a sip, buying himself a heartbeat.

What if I dont want to? He tried not to sound too sharp.

Then well just carry on rowin about the salt, she said, voice calm. Id rather not.

He looked at her. The wrinkles around her lips had grown deeper over the years, and hed no idea when it had happened. She looked exhaustednot from today, but as though from an entire life.

All right, he said. But I warn you, Im rubbish at all these… techniques.

You dont have to be good, she managed a tired smile. Just honest.

On Thursday evening, he sat on the sofa, staring at his phone, pretending to read the headlines. The feeling in his belly reminded him of waiting in a dentists reception.

A kitchen timer, round and white with numbers around the rim, rested on the coffee table. She usually set it when baking pies, but tonight it lay between thema foreign invader among their things.

She brought two mugs of tea, set them down, sat opposite. She wore an old knitted jumper, elbows baggy, hair wound into an indifferent ponytail.

So, she said. Shall we begin?

Do we have a formal agenda? he tried a joke.

We do. I start. Ten minutes. Then you. If theres anything left, next week.

He nodded and set his phone on the armrest. She took the timer, wound it to 10 and pressed the button. It began to tick, softly.

I feel… she began, then faltered.

He caught himself bracing for the usual you never or you always, muscles drawing tight. But she pressed her palms together and went on:

I feel as thoughIm just background. Like the house, the food, your shirts, our daystheyd all just tick along. If I stopped, itd all fall apart, but no one would notice until things got really bad.

He wanted to say he did notice. He just never said so. That maybe she never let him do anything for her. But he remembered the rules and clamped his lips.

Its important to me, she glanced at him before looking away, that the things I doactually register, sometimes. Not praise, not thanks every day. But just sometimes, Id like you to say not just that the soup tastes good, but thatyou know how much effort goes into all this. That its not a given.

He swallowed. The timer ticked on. He wanted to arguethat he got tired too, that his job wasnt a picnic either. But there wasnt a rule for interjecting in the middle.

I want… She sighed. I want not to be the one responsible for everything by default. For your health, our Christmases, the kids, all of it. I want to be allowed to be weak, sometimes, not justholding it together.

He stared at her hands. The wedding ring hed given her for their tenth seemed to squeeze her finger a little now. He remembered agonising over the size, back then.

The timer beeped. She winced and gave a jittery laugh.

Thats me doneten minutes.

Well, I… he cleared his throat. Its my turn.

She nodded and reset the timer, sliding it over to him.

He felt like a schoolboy at the blackboard.

I feel…, he began, sounding faintly ridiculous. I feel like I want to hide, a lot of the time, at home. Because if I get something wrong, youre bound to spot it. And if I do it well, its justwell, thats to be expected.

She nodded, stayed silent.

Its important to me, he said, listening to his own words as if someone else had spoken them, that when I come in from work and flop in the armchair, its not a crime. I dont sit about all day either. I get tired too.

He caught her eyes: tired, but attentive.

I want… He hesitated. I want you to stop saying you never understand. I do. Maybe not everything, but Im not oblivious. When you say that, I just want to clam up and disappear, because whatever I say will be wrong.

The timer beeped. He felt like he’d been yanked out of deep water.

They sat in silence. The television was off; something murmured in the next roomthe fridge or the radiators.

How odd, she said. Like a rehearsal.

Like were not married, were… He searched for a word. Patients.

She chuckled wryly.

If thats what we arelets at least give it a month. Once a week.

He shrugged.

A months not a life sentence.

She nodded, picking up the timer and carrying it to the kitchen. He watched her go and found himself thinking, oddly, that their flat now had a new piece of furniture.

On Saturday, they went to Sainsburys. She pushed the trolley ahead, he ambled behind, ticking things off the list: milk, chicken, rice.

Get some tomatoes, she called, not looking back.

He fished several from the box, bagged them. Caught himself about to say something like, I feel like tomatoes are heavy, and smirked.

What? she turned toward him.

Just practising, he said. With my new expressions.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

You dont need to do it in public, she said. Then again… maybe you should.

They passed the biscuit aisle. He instinctively reached for her favourite, then remembered her talk about sugar and blood pressure. His hand hesitated.

Go on, she said, catching him. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.

He dropped a pack into the trolley.

I he began, then paused.

What?

I know you do a lot, he blurted, staring at the price label. Thats for Thursday.

She regarded him closely and nodded.

Ill note it down, she said.

The second conversation was stickier.

He landed on the sofa fifteen minutes late: got held up at work, snared by traffic, then a call from their son. She was waiting already, timer and her squared notebook set neatly at her elbow.

Ready? she asked, skipping a greeting.

One sec, he took off his coat, hooked it over a chair, ducked to the kitchen for water, then returned, feeling the weight of her eyes on his back.

You dont have to do this, she said. If youre not interested, tell me.

I am, he replied, though every cell wanted to bolt. Just a long day.

Me too, she answered curtly. But I made it on time.

He squeezed his glass.

Fine, he said. Lets get on.

She turned the timer to 10.

I feel, she began, like we live as neighbours. We talk about bills, groceries, health, but hardly ever about what we want. I cant remember when we last planned a holiday for the two of us, and not wherever wed been invited.

He thought of her sisters cottage and last years spa hotel, both arranged by someone else.

Its important to me, she went on, that we have plans together. Not just one day well go to the seaside, but actually here, actually then, for this long. Not just me doing the pushing, but us.

He nodded, though she looked past him.

I want she faltered I want us to talk about sex not just when its missing. Its embarrassing, but… its not just the thing itself I miss. I misstouch. Hugs, a hand on the arm, not scheduled-in. When you turn away from me in bed, I feel… well, not just boring to you as a woman, but invisible.

He felt his ears heating up. He wanted to joke, say that at their age it hardly mattered, but words stuck in his throat.

The timer chimed. Your turn, she said.

He reached for it, but hesitated, so she wound it and pushed it his way.

I feel, he started, like when we talk about money, Im cast as some kind ofATM. If I say no to something, it reads as being tight, not as being scared.

She pressed her lips together but said nothing.

Its important you know he went on, Im afraid of running out. I remember counting every penny back in the nineties. When you say, oh, dont fuss, everything inside me tenses up.

He drew a breath.

I want that when youre planning some big spend, we talk it through. Dont just present it as a done deal: youre down on the list, youve ordered, youve paid. Im not against spending, I just hate surprises.

The timer beeped. He sagged.

Can I say something? she burst out. Its not by-the-book, but I can’t hold it in.

He stilled.

Go on, he said.

When you say Im an ATM, her voice trembled, it feels like you think all I ever do is spend. But Im scared too. Im scared of falling ill, of you leaving, of being alone. Sometimes I buy things not because I want to waste your money, but to feel we have a future. Were still planning something.

He opened his mouth for a reply, but pulled back in time. They gazed at each other over the little table, as if across a border.

Thats not on the timer, he said quietly.

I know, she replied. But Im not a robot.

He managed a lopsided, joyless smile.

Maybe this technique isnt meant for actual people, he muttered.

Its for those willing to try, one more time, she said.

He leaned back, every inch of him heavy.

Lets leave it for now, he suggested.

She eyed the timer, then him.

All right, she agreed. But lets not call this a failure. Call it a pencil note in the margin.

He nodded. She took up the timer but left it, close to the tables edge, an open invitation for return.

He tossed and turned all night. She lay with her back to him. He reached out, thought to put his hand on her shoulder, then paused, an inch away. Her voice, about feeling like just a neighbour, ran round in his head.

He withdrew his hand, rolled onto his back and stared into the darkness.

The third conversation came a week later, started unexpectedlyaboard the number forty-seven bus.

They were on their way to the GP surgery: he for an ECG, her for some bloods. It was crowded; they stood clutching the overhead rail. She gazed out at the street, silent, while he studied her profile.

Are you cross? he asked.

No, she said. Im thinking.

About what?

About us getting older, she replied, her eyes on the rainy glass. If we dont learn to talk now, we never will. One day itll just be too late.

He wanted to say he was still all right, but the words stuck. He remembered the wheezing yesterday, climbing five flights.

Im afraid, he said, surprising himself, that theyll cart me off to hospital, and youll come visit and secretly seethe.

She looked at him.

I wont be cross, she said. Ill be frightened.

He nodded.

That night, when they settled on the sofa, the timer was already waiting on the table. She put two more cups of tea down and sat opposite.

Lets start with you, she offered gently. I talked enough on the bus.

He sighed. Turned the dial to 10.

I feel, he said, that when you talk about being tired, I think youre blaming meeven if youre not. And I get defensive, before you even finish speaking.

She nodded.

Its important to me, he pressed on, to learn how to hear you instead of just defending myself. But I dont know how. I was taught as a boy: if youre guilty, you get punished. If you tell me youre hurting, I hear youre a bad man.

Hed never named it before; it sounded strange in his own voice.

I want us to agree: when you talk about your feelings, it doesn’t mean Im guilty. And if I slip up, say so straight: yesterday, this time. Not always.

The timer ticked on. She listened, silent.

Thats ithe cut off as it beeped. Your go.

She wound the dial.

I feel, she began, carefully, like Ive been in keep going mode for years. For the kids, you, my parents. When you go silent, I feel Im pulling this cart all by myself.

He remembered last year, her mums funeral. He really had gone silent then.

Its important, she continued, that you sometimes start a conversation. Dont wait for me to explode. Come, say How are you? or Lets talk about it. I hate feeling like a nag.

He nodded.

I want, she paused, for us to agree to two things. First: no serious talk when either of us is tired or cross. Not racing about, not between the porch and the lift. If it needs to wait, lets wait.

He watched her face closely.

Second: no raised voices around the kids. I know I slip, but I dont want them seeing that.

The timer beeped, but she rushed to finish.

Thats me. Done.

He smiled at the corners of his mouth.

Thats not quite by the rules, he commented.

But its real life, she replied.

He clicked off the timer.

I agree, he said. To both.

She relaxed, just a fraction.

And I, he added after a moment, want one more rule.

Which? she said warily.

If we dont finish in these ten minutes, he said, we dont drag it on into the night. Next Thursday, we pick up where we left off. No long-drawn-out trench warfare.

She considered.

All right, she agreed. But if somethings on fire?

If its flaming, we put it out, he nodded. Just not with petrol.

She gave a snort of laughter.

Deal, she said.

Between their talks, life drifted onwards.

In the mornings, he made his own coffee; she fried eggs. Sometimes he washed up without her asking. She noticed but didnt always say so. Evenings, they watched telly shows, bickered about the rightness of characters actions. Now and then, she almost said, were just like them, but remembered the Thursday rule and saved it up.

One evening, she was stirring soup, when he came up quietly and put a hand around her waist. For no reason.

Whats this for? she asked, not turning round.

Nothing, he said. Just practising.

Practising what? she asked, surprised.

Touching, he replied. Not by the clock.

She almost laughed, but didnt pull away.

Ill note that down, she said.

A month on, they sat again on the sofa, timer poised between them.

Shall we keep going? he asked.

What do you reckon? she replied.

He studied the white plastic shell, her hands, his knees.

I think we should, he said. Weve not nailed it yet.

We never will, she shrugged. Its not an exam. Its like brushing your teeth.

He snorted.

Romantic, he said.

Easy to remember, though, she replied.

She turned the dial and set the timer down.

Lets go easy tonight, she suggested. If we wander, we wander.

No need for zealotry, he agreed.

She breathed in.

I feel, she said, that things have got lighter for me. Not completely, butits like Im not invisible any more. You talk now, you ask. I see that.

He coloured slightly.

Its important, she pressed on, that we dont quit just because things feel lighter. I dont want us crawling back into old habitskeeping quiet till we blow.

He nodded.

I want, she said, that in a year, we can look back and say: were more honest. Not perfectjust more honest.

The timer ticked on. For once, he didnt want to answer with a joke.

Thats me, she said, as it signalled. Now you.

He turned the dial, clicked it on.

I feel, he said, more afraid now. Hiding behind silence was easy. Saying things out loudscary. I worry Ill say the wrong thing, hurt you.

She tilted her head, listening.

Its important, he went on, for you to remember: Im not your enemy. My fears arent weaponstheyre part of me.

He paused.

I want, he said, for us to hold on to this habit. A real talk, every week, no blame, even if we slip up. Make itour thing.

The timer beeped. He shut it off, not waiting for the double ring.

They paused, silent. From the kitchen came a clickthe kettle switching itself off. Laughter from neighbours seeped through the wall. The front door downstairs banged.

You know, she said, I always thought we needed one big breakthrough, like in the movies. A single revelation, and boomeverythings changed. Turns out its justevery week, little by little.

He nodded. Bit by bit, yeah.

He looked at her face. The wrinkles held on fast; so did the tiredness. But there was something else in her looka glimmer, maybe, of attention.

Lets have tea, he suggested.

She nodded. Lets.

She picked up the timer and carried it into the kitchen, setting it beside the sugar bowl instead of tucking it away. He filled the kettle, set it to boil, lit the gas.

Ive got an appointment after work next Thursday, she said, leaning on the table. Might not be home in time.

Well shift to Friday, he replied. No tough talks when youre tired.

She met his eyes and smiled.

Deal, she said.

He opened the cupboard, set two mugs on the table. The kettle began to rumble.

Where shall I put the salt? he asked suddenly, recalling that first quarrel.

She glanced over and saw the jar in his hand.

Where I look for it, she answered automatically, then paused. Second shelf on the left.

He set it as directed.

Done, he said.

She stepped nearer, grazing his shoulder with her hand.

Thanks for asking, she said quietly.

He nodded. The kettle roared. The timer, voiceless, waited on the table, biding its time until next Thursday.