By this time, I had worked through a sufficient amount of my feelings by way of plunging and scrubbing. So, I looked down at the plate of crusted-over sweet-and-sour chicken in my hands and then smiled sweetly back at Miles. “Why don’t you give me your best guess.” “Taking out some deeply hidden aggression on dishes that you shouldn’t be washing.” He strode to the refrigerator and took out a small lunch cooler. I ignored the jab. “If I don’t wash them, nobody will.” “But that’s not your problem,” he said, leaning against the counter.
