No one likes doing the dishes. A necessary evil, even if the dishwasher is loaded to the gills, there's going to be something that needs a little (figurative) elbow grease.

I make dinner, so you're washing. And in the window between cooking, eating, and the time I have to dry those dishes, I often get other ideas.

You poke fun at me when I get amorous, taking advantage of your hands being immersed in warm soap to slide up behind you. That you're not dressed or showered, ponytail up, leggings on, more ready for an evening in than flaunting your body for me to enjoy.

I do enjoy you. The way you smirk and turn your neck so I can kiss at it, pushing your hips back against the erection you cause almost merely by existing. The sighs and gasps that encourage wandering hands, under that shirt you threw on or into those leggings, perhaps pushing the sanitizing of supper cutlery further down the line.

So don't do the dishes. Let me ogle you, grope you and enjoy you, against, on the edge of and bent over the sink, the way you were meant to be.