The Towel That Had to Stay Dry — Marlene and Iris

Marlene set two cups beside the toast, straightened the butter dish, and intercepted Iris reaching for the tea towel.

“Fresh one. A tea towel only works if it stays dry.”

Iris took a fresh towel from the drawer.

“Stays dry. All right.”

Marlene poured the coffee with the satisfied air of someone whose kitchen had accepted a sensible policy.

Iris rinsed a teaspoon and held it above the sink until it stopped dripping. Then, very carefully, she folded the towel around it.

“First spoon,” she said.

She unwrapped it. The metal shone without a drop. A dark patch marked the towel.

“Now it's wet,” Marlene said. “Use another bit.”

Iris moved her finger toward a dry corner, then stopped.

“The whole towel has to stay dry, or just the bit?”

“The bit you're using.”

“Right.”

Iris rinsed the second spoon. She found an untouched corner, dried the spoon, and opened the cloth flat beside the first wet patch.

Marlene leaned closer.

Iris pointed to the two spoons. Then to the two patches.

“Both bits got wet.”

“Yes.”

“But both spoons got dry.”

Marlene picked up a spoon and inspected it as though it might confess to remaining damp.

“So,” Iris said, “the towel only works if it doesn't do what it just did.”

For a moment, the toast cooled in perfect silence.

“I'd like to withdraw ‘stays,’” Marlene said.

Iris started laughing. Marlene tried to lay the towel down with dignity, caught sight of the two accusing patches, and laughed too.

They sat down to breakfast. The towel, relieved of its impossible duties, hung over the oven handle.