Talk to nice sleep.

The soap suds fill the sink, crusting up over the dirty plates and coffee-stained

mugs like a tsunami of cleanliness that will never be able to complete its job.

Orsa watches the suds, studies them, sees how the ones closest to the faucets stream

are completely obliterated in the middle, but grow tall and thick,

surrounding the empty space like protective glaciers. There's a metaphor in the scene in the sink,

and Orsa wonders if she's the empty space or the towering glaciers.

Water isn't free, you know, Orsa stiffens, snapping herself out of her reverie in order to focus on the task at hand.

She is supposed to do the dishes.

Her job is the dishes.

Orsa does the dishes.

Water's free if you're on a well,

Orsa replies, with barely hidden annoyance.

Which we are. She waits for the rebuke at her tone, but barely hidden annoyance. Which we are.

She waits for the rebuke at her tone, but it doesn't come.

Orsa shuts off the water, and not a moment too soon or too late, the reply comes.

Takes electricity to run the well pump, and electricity to run the pressure tank.

Last I checked, electricity isn't free.

Mother, always around, always hovering, ready for when Orsa messes up, ready for when Orsa starts to slack, which is never, because all Orsa knows is that there are dishes to do, and Orsa does the dishes.

Ignoring her mother, which has become harder and harder to do,

Orsa dips her hands into the scalding hot water, oblivious to the pain she should be feeling.

She grasps a mug and pulls it up from the sudsy icebergs,

...