A tense scene

She was cleaning. A little more than usual that night. He knew it meant she was anxious. From the moment she got home from work it was straight to the task at hand. Dishes, trash, she'd soon be scrubbing the floors and doing laundry. As if it were something bad.

He knew why she would, though. He secretly laughed.

She stood in the kitchen loading a dishwasher full of dirty dishes. She clanked and banged and made deliberate noises. He understood it was only to get the frustration out.

"You've been here for, like, ten minutes and you're already into it," he said.

"It's been a weird day," she said.

"Me too."

She sat a cup down a little too hard on the counter and the noise resonated like a cathedral bell through the room. Both had become suddenly aware.

A pause in the static silence.

"It makes me feel better," she said, "to know that we have a decent place here." She wiped her hair from her face, "to know I'm not--we're not--fuck ups." She absently grabbed soap and poured it into the dishwasher trap.

"I know," he said, "I understand. But you haven't even said hello to me. You came right in and got started."

"What do you want from me?" She slammed the dishwasher door shut and twisted the dial.

"I just want you to be honest. Shit I want you to relax."

The dishwasher let a loud click and began to churn with rhythm.

"I know," she said, "I'm sorry. You don't know what its like. You don't know what its like to be me. To have to deal with it."
A thump from the dishwasher and they could hear the water running through the hose and into the chamber.

"Let it go."

Steam and hissing filled the air. She looked at the dishwasher overflowing with suds. Foam pouring from it's seams onto the kitchen's wood floor. Feathery bits broke away and began wafting into the air.