"The Penthouse," by Helen Phillips
Briefly

She did not like the penthouse, but even more she did not like the idea of people like us staying in the penthouse... He was a kind but self-important man we knew only by chance.
As the dishwasher began its cycle, we felt calm, competent, like kings who'd sent their best troops out to greet the enemy. And to celebrate we took a bath in the free-standing tub with the waterfall faucet.
We crouched in the water amid strands of semen and hair... We had been happy, playing our splashing games in the tub. But now the potent lower half of your body was hidden, defeated, in the grayish water; now my stomach was aging by the minute.
Most of the cups were in the dishwasher, and this husband and wife had few practical or domestic things, no pots.
Read at The New Yorker
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