Kit has a lot of T-shirts. Black ones, white ones, gray ones, red ones. Some with designs on them, some with the names of exotic destinations, a couple with band names.
Len sorts them into light and dark colors, and then examines them for stains. Most of them are good, but there's a suspicious red stain near the bottom of one of the gray shirts. He sprays pre-treater on it and puts it aside.
The stories these shirts could tell, if only they could talk. Spinal Tap? What's that? Something that happened in 1982 and 1983, according to the dates on the back. There are cities listed after the dates. Must be a band tour shirt, then. But where did it come from?
There's a green one with Muppet Show characters that makes him smile, then frown when he sees the huge split under the arm. He puts that in the mending basket along with a dress shirt that's missing a button and a pair of pants ripped up the back seam. His foster mom taught him how to do simple clothing repairs when he was fourteen, and he finds that he actually enjoys it when there's nothing else to do. If he has time, he might even cut off and hem those jeans with the knees worn through.
The light-colored clothes go in the machine first. Len pours a capful of detergent in and sets the machine to what he hopes is the right wash setting. When the washer starts, he takes out what's in the dryer and starts balling socks.
Been a while since he's done laundry. Been a while since he's had any to do. He has two sets of clothes of his own, and since he's been here, he's had to wash them only once. Airing them out overnight usually does the trick.
Once the socks are done, he starts folding underwear. It's not as interesting as the T-shirts. Most of it is plain white briefs, except for one pair with some kind of cartoon characters on it. Yellow people with spiky hair and four fingers. Strange.
The basket is full of small white bits of cloth now. He sets it down in Kit's room and begins looking around for a needle and thread to do the mending, while he waits for the next load to finish. He looks through all the drawers, in the closet, everywhere, but he can't find anything resembling any kind of a sewing kit. Maybe he'll have to go out and buy one.
Kit should be home any minute now. So Len gets out a pot and fills it with water. They'll have pasta for supper, provided he doesn't screw it up again. Cooking is not his forte, but they can't have take-out every night. While the water heats, he looks through all the cabinets for the jar of sauce he swears he saw a few days ago. It's nowhere to be found.
"Oh, come on!" It has to be here somewhere! When did they last have a pasta dinner? Was it Thursday or Friday? He remembers seeing the half-full jar of sauce sitting on the counter. What happened to it?
He checks the fridge and there it is, right behind the orange juice. Saved! He takes it out and sets it on the counter beside the blue-and-white pasta box with the red label. Now all he has to do is wait for the water to boil so he can cook the pasta and hopefully not drop the whole pot on the floor this time. That was . . . embarrassing. Not to mention painful; he'd burned his fingers on the handle of the pot. Have to remember potholders this time.
After a few minutes, the water's starting to bubble. He dumps the pasta into the pot, gives it a stir with a wooden spoon, and then goes to check on the laundry. It's not quite ready yet, much to his annoyance. He goes back to the kitchen just as the pasta is ready, and Kit's walking through the door.
"What's up?" he asks, seeing the pot sitting on the stove. "Where did that come from?"
"I thought I'd make dinner tonight."
"Last time you tried, we ended up eating off the floor."
"Hey!"
"Just saying."
"Funny how when it's your turn to make dinner, we end up eating out."
"They have good seats in the Café, and I like their dessert menu."
"You eat too much sugar." Len dumps the pasta into the colander in the sink, drains it, and returns it to the pot. "Go put your laundry away while I finish this. I put the basket in your room. I'll need it back."
Kit just stares at him. "Wow, what's up with this? You're cooking, you're doing laundry . . . this is too weird."
"Why? Someone's got to do it."
"Maybe, but it just doesn't seem like you. I mean, here you are, the big, tough Kamen Rider, doing domestic chores? Are you sure you're not some kind of pod person?"
"Positive."
"Whatever." Kit shrugs and goes off to put his laundry away. He doesn't mind doing his own laundry; he was expected to do it all the time in the foster home, and he never complained.
Len folds socks the way Kit's dad used to: tops together, folded over, rolled up into a ball. They go on the left side of the top drawer. Undershirts to the right, briefs in the middle. The elastic is starting to go on the pair with the Simpsons on it. Maybe he can get one more wearing out of them. He shoves them to the back, closes the drawer, and hooks his fingers around the handle of the basket. It's white, with slotted sides. He remembers, long ago, an olive green basket he would sit in while his dad dragged him around the room. How old was he? Two? Three? Probably no more than that; it wasn't a big basket.
Kit sits on the end of his bed and wishes his dad were here. It's been so long since he's heard the man's voice (other than those times that may or may not have been his imagination) that he feels abandoned, like he's all alone in the world . . .
There's a tap on his door, and Len pokes his head in. "Dinner's ready, whenever you are."
"OK."
With that, Kit lets go of his self-pity and comes to the door, dragging the basket behind him. The basket starts to tip over, and he lifts it up and carries it, setting it down on the floor to be filled later.
"It's undercooked," Len says, staring into his bowl.
"It's fine," Kit tells him. "I like it crunchy."
"I should have let it cook longer before serving it."
"At least it didn't end up on the floor this time. You're getting better at this."
"Good. Maybe then I can teach you."
"Teach me later. I'm going for a walk." Kit got up and put his bowl in the sink. "Whose turn is it to wash up?"
"Yours, I think."
"Didn't I do them last night? I'm sure I did . . ."
"Nope. We went out last night. Remember?"
Oh, yeah. They did, didn't they? "Guess I'm washing dishes, then," Kit says with a shrug.
"Don't forget to wash out the pan and the spoons," Len advises him. He gives up on his own crunchy pasta, gets up and adds it to the pile in the sink.
"Wait--where are you going?"
Len picks up the basket. "I've got laundry to finish."
(Author's note: Hi there! I'm glad so many people are putting my story in their Favorites or Alerts. I'd like to ask if you'd mind leaving a short review, just to let me know what I'm doing right. Thanks so much! Still more to come, so stay tuned!)