The cutting board perches precariously at the top of a tower of kitchen regulars: a phone book, some mail, the colander washed and dried but for some mysterious reason never put away. Atop the cutting board lists a plastic bowl, holding the heart of an avocado, stained stripily browning green. Beside it lie the darkening, shriveling shards of skin, discarded, no part of the beauty plan.
A slurry of cucumber pulp and seeds affixes to porcelain sink, stainless forks, well-used scrubby and well-worn cookie sheet.
I place the bowl and cutting board in the sink, discarding the pit and the skin; as warm water flows from the faucet, I drizzle lavendar-scented dish soap over all , and the green stains begin to fade from view.