“Pay attention,” said the older woman with gray hair pulled into a severe bun.  “You keep zoning out and not doing what you’re supposed to.  In this place, we work together.”<br/><br/>The younger woman sighed quietly and accepted the dripping plate that the older woman was handing her.  Carol was right; she had been zoning out.  It was hard not to especially given the monotony of drying dishes.  Take plate, dry plate, set plate on top of stack.  Repeat ad nauseum.  This had been Tatum’s Friday routine for years.  Carol handed over another plate.  And then another.  It was so easy to zone out following this routine of automaticity.<br/><br/>She longed for the way the world was a few short years ago.  When Friday meant happy hours with her colleagues or getting dolled up to go out in the city with her friends.  When Friday meant getting ready to go on a date.  When Friday meant anything other than doing dishes after a community meal.<br/><br/>Carol handed her the last of the plates to dry and add to the stack.  Next would come the glasses.  It was the same as it was every other Friday.  Plates, glasses, silverware, serving dishes, and cookware.  Wash and dry.  Some weeks, Tatum loved the community feel of the small town.  Everyone looked out for each other, everyone took care of each other.  But other weeks, like this one, she hated being forced to participate in the weekly services and the dinners that followed.  Sometimes, all she wanted to do was shout a line from a Queen song in the middle of services,<i>I want to break free!</i>, just to see what the congregation would do.<br/><br/>It used to be that the women would laugh and joke while cleaning up after the meals, the meals that had been a way to pool their resources and stretch what little food they’d had until they’d figured out how to scavenge and plant crops.  Carol had been a sweet motherly type who’d always made sure that Tatum had what she needed.  But the years passed and they slipped into more typical gender roles.  The women cooked and cleaned.  The men hunted and kept them<i>safe</i>.  The lines on Carol’s face grew deeper, her voice lost its laugh, her words grew curt.<br/><br/>Tatum blamed the men.  Mostly, though, she blamed the women.  If only they had pushed back against the subtle changes in their roles.<i>He</i>was very persuasive though.  Silver tongued devil, the Priest.  He was so charismatic and so<i>convincing</i>.  There were some services where even she found herself nodding along and agreeing with the wisdom he shared with them.<br/><br/>With a soft sigh, she accepted the proffered glass and dried it, shoving the dish towel in and giving it a good twist before quickly swiping at the outside.  Carol was already holding out the next glass by the time the first had been set on the drying rack.  Time passed yet without a watch, the only way she could track the time was by the amount of dishes she had helped dry.<br/><br/>“You’re not really drying them anymore, Tay,” came the happy voice in her ear that belonged to someone closer to her own age.  “Go hang your towel outside on the line and I’ll take over for you for a bit.”  Beth gave her friend a little hip check to nudge her out of the way, cheerfully accepting the next glass from Carol.<br/><br/>Tay smiled her thanks at Beth then headed for the back door of the large kitchen in the basement of the church.  It was a calm night, the air just crisp enough to signal that summer was waning and autumn was on its way.  She stepped away from the door, away from the watchful eyes of the women.  The wet dish towel was hung on the clothesline, pinned in place with two clothespins whittled by one of the older men who liked to keep his hand busy.  Reluctant to go back inside, back into the stifling still air of the kitchen, Tatum put her hands in the small of her back and arched forward then twisted, the sound of the small pops and cracks satisfying in the late afternoon air.<br/><br/>The ex-lawyer sighed. She would have to go back inside soon. They would look for her. They did not take kindly to people who didn’t fall in line with everyone else. In fact, she could hear the scraping of the chairs across the floor as the women rearranged the furniture so the young folk could visit, as Carol had put it once or twice. Every Friday, she was forced to sit in a room with people around her own age and “visit”. Idle chit chat for some, stolen glances for others, secret touches of fingers and hands between pairs. And then, once the sun had set, the women would be escorted safely to their doors by whatever men had decided them worthy of male attention. Thus far, Tatum had always seen herself home.<br/><br/><i>I need a haircut</i>she thought to herself as she twisted the long mess of chestnut-colored hair off the nape of her neck, using two hairpins and deft fingers to fasten it into a bun at her hairline. Tatum has always liked her hair. It was thick and now it was long enough to tumble in waves to just below her shoulder blades. Even the natural color of it was beautiful. It was ironic how many years she had spent paying for hair color when the natural was even more stunning.<br/><br/>“Tay!” Beth called to her, giving the nickname a sing song lilt. “You’re going to miss all the fun!”<br/><br/>Tatum scrubbed at her face with one hand and tried to put some life into honey brown eyes.<i>Just go inside and make polite conversation until it’s time to leave.</i>A little personal pep talk.<br/><br/>“Tatum Cleary! You get in here right now! It’s not proper for a young lady to be outside alone with the sun going down. Don’t you know what’s out there?” Carol’s voice hissed the warning as she stormed towards the door, intent on bringing this woman inside where she belonged.<br/><br/>“I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist, Carol,” speaking as she stepped back inside. She knew the older woman was already irritated that she had chosen to wear a pair of jeans and a light sweater that draped and hung off one shoulder to expose a delicate bone structure and smooth skin covered in a light smattering of freckles. Carol didn’t like things from Before. She always made Tatum want to say things like ‘you’re not the boss of me’ and stick her tongue out. Quite frequently, she had to remind herself that she was a grown woman in her early thirties and she should act like it.<br/><br/>With a sigh and a plastered on smile, she dropped into a chair next to Beth and steeled herself for another evening of ho-hum conversation. It was on Fridays that she wondered why she had ever bothered to come back home.<br/><br/>Yet every Friday the answer came to her. Safety. It was<i>safe</i>here.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="2111" data-username="@WriteAngry" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/2111/">@WriteAngry</a>