Dinner is over and you've just finished your last scoop of desert. A pile of dirty dishes lay scattered on the kitchen bench. They're staring back at you, haunting you. "Wash me, Wash me". A rush of anxiety flows through your guts. "I'll do it later" you say to yourself. "I'll do it later".

Some time passes, and before you know it you've nodded off to sleep on the lounge room couch.

Suddenly you're awoken by loud whispering, chattering coming from the kitchen. You rub your eyes and slip your feet back into your slippers that lay beside you on the floor. As you make your way down the hallway toward the kitchen, the whispering gets louder. You start to make out what the voices are saying. They're chanting your name.

"Joe Blow, Joe Blow".

When you make it to the kitchen door you stop to gather your thoughts. Where could these voices be coming from? What are they doing in my one bedroom flat? Why are they calling my name?

You quietly peep your head around the corner. It is a spectacle unlike anything you've ever seen be-fore. Teacups are dancing, soup bowls are kissing and vases are arriving fashionably late. A couple of mugs are causing mischief pushing the teapot around in the corner. The champagne glasses are having a blast. The fry pan is having trouble settling in and just wishes he could be at home with the saucepans.

By the time you've worked up the nerve to step into the room, the guests don't even notice you're there. They're all so busy going about their business that they don't see the sponge in your hand.

A spoon lays quietly beneath some butter knives.

You pick her up and start tapping her against a wine glass. Everyone turns towards you, smiles on their faces. Even the mugs are happy to see you. You fill the sink with soapy water.

"Ok my

friends, jump in. This tea party is over. I got to work tomorrow".

One by one, jugs after saucers and saucers after glasses.

Finally you place the second last dish into the drying rack. Staring into your own reflection in a saucepan, it slowly dawns on you that the whole thing was just a figment of your imagina-tion; teapots are just teapots and vases are just vases, only good for holding flowers and old paint brushes.

Dirty dishes don't have tea parties.

You dry your hands on the tea towel hanging from the oven handle and make your way to bed.

"Good night Joe" you hear a voice call to you.

It's just a reflection you tell yourself. It's just a reflection.

"Just A Reflection" is a series of black and white ink paintings by Brendan Huntley.

Brendan Huntley, June 2008