Dear Dishwasher,

When I first met you, you were a Godsend, a magical machine longed for after a year-and-a-half of apartment living, where the dishes would pile high and dirty until one of us would break down and resentfully scrub them in hot water like servants in a PBS period piece.  How noble you were!  How great and how mighty, with your spinning arms and scalding steam and thrumming, competent sanitizing.

But you drifted from us.  You ebbed away from what you were like a long tide, slowly retreating to something mundane and (too often) below par.  At first we accepted the cloudiness of the glasses, the scum under the cups, the clinging bits of spinach in the strainer, because the alternative (forbid it, forbid it, mein Gott), the soap and the burns and the ever present threat of submarine laceration, was too much to contemplate.  We would not go back to that sink.  We could not go back to that sink.

But, it seems, you found the limit of our love. 

Are you happy, Dishwasher?  Are you proud?  Do you take joy in knowing that took us to the brink of our affection before we has no choice but to cast it off?  When all our dishes were left wretched and filmy, did you know that it would be the final blow?

You must know by now that you are to be replaced.  When I unbolted you from the cupboard and wrenched you from the counter, you must have known that your time was coming.  You vomited, and that was done, I think, in fear.  I wiped up your greasy drain-water with the oldest, filthiest towel I could find, to remind you of what you had become. 

But, it seems, you did not want to leave without a fight.

A touch!  Your water line was too short and too tightly bound.  You forced me to lie in puddles of your drain-puke to unbolt it, and even then it was barely accessible without me levering your bulk up. 

And then you barfed on my head.

When the drain and water-line were finally cut from your broken body, you remained stubbornly tied to my electrical grid, defiantly hard-wired in as though desperate to stay at the expense of my hydro bill.  Back into the drain-puke I went, but you cast dark magic on my new wire tester and broke it before it could tell me if I was about to untwist live wires whilst lying in water.  Another touch, I must admit, but I was not deterred by the threat of electrocution, not when I was so close.

I braved your wires, and I called your bluff.

So now you are free to spend your last night with us, alone, in the dark, while the microwave looks down scornfully on your naked plastic exterior (your insulation I have stripped to take as my trophy, my scalp, my mighty pelt). 

They will come for you tomorrow.  Men will come for you and they will take you away. 

I will wipe the last of your greasy discharge from my floor, and your place will be taken by a machine that will clean our dishes as you never could.

And I will shed no tears.

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