I was drinking my coffee on the balcony when she emerged ten minutes later, looking tip-top.
“Angelo? There you are.” She stopped a few feet from the window that led to the balcony, as if she couldn’t come any closer. “Listen, I’m not saying anything about the cooking, the shoes, the stubble hair you leave in the bathroom sink,andthe toothpaste, by the way, the plate you smashed, and the sand you didn’t sweep from the entrance, but can we please at least agree about the toilet seat? Can you put it back down? I don’t like—”
“The cold porcelain against your ass? Sure, no problem,” I cut her off. If this list of my sins first thing in the morning went on any longer, I might as well just call Immigration myself.
I took a slow sip from my coffee then went inside and put it on the breakfast bar without looking at her.
“Don’t take it like that.” Now she was standing three feet from me, and I noticed her eyes dropping to my ringed finger.
“Take what? The shoes, the paste, the toilet seat, or all the rest?”
“I know many men who are considerate about this.”
I gritted my teeth. “You never lived with one.”
By now, I’d learned to almost expect it—the pink glow flaring from her chest to her neck. It had become my main ally in reading this impenetrable woman.
She glared at me. “You know what?”
“What?” I mouthed it, along with a grin. Though I knew it was bound to recur, this morning’s attack had come out of nowhere, and in a twisted way, I enjoyed seeing her riled up. Like the word “hate” she had used, this bottled anger of hers was better than her making sure I knew she was shunning me the moment I managed to discover anything new about her.
“It’s none of your damn business if I did or didn’t.” She might have tried to control her voice, but it came out loud. She then swung around and strode toward the front door.
“It actually is.” I followed her.
She pivoted back and almost bumped into me. Straightening up even more than her usual uprightness, she leveled her tone. “When Ireallylive with someone, it’ll be someone Ichoose. You and I chose the deal, but we didn’t choose each other.”
I locked my eyes with hers and kept my voice down. “I certainly wouldn’t have chosen you.”
Her nostrils flared, the pink glow reached her cheeks. “I know!” she expelled loudly.
If she hadn’t slammed the door behind her at that point, I would have gone after her, said I didn’t mean it, and hugged her.
Over the past few days, she ping-ponged me between wanting to shake her to burning to hold and caress her; from hoping to never see her again to yearning to hear her moaning my name; from wishing to tell her everything was going to be all right to dying to tell her to fuck right off.
She was a massive pain in the ass, but despite everything, she had somehow managed to become a pain in my heart, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coffee in hand, I took my dirty clothes to the washing machine that was hidden behind a wall in the bathroom. Several panties and bras hung to dry on a rack leaning against it. Most were what I’d expect June to wear, but a few were delicate lace and colors other than beige.
Don’t go there, Angelo.
Her detergent, unsurprisingly, was some odorless flakes that I hoped would do the work.
When the short cycle was ready, I hung my clothes next to hers and put the rack out on the balcony.
In the afternoon, after hours of work, I was left with the last two guitars that needed fixing—an electric and an acoustic. The electric required tools that I hadn’t brought with me. If this living here lasted any longer, I’d have to drive to San Francisco and grab more clothes and more work. The pedal board I worked on hadn’t yet emulated the airy, chiming sound of the classic SDD3000, though it sounded much better ever since I’d gotten here. Maybe June driving me crazy had a positive effect on my craft.
I checked my phone. My text to June—“Sink is clean, entrance swept. Can we talk?”—had been left seen but unanswered.
Rio peeked her head through the door.
“Too loud?” I preempted, hiding my left hand behind the guitar so she wouldn’t see the ring. I had planned on removing it but kept it there.
“A tiny bit.” She scrunched her face, her soft brown bangs getting into her eyes. “I thought it was U2 playing.”
“Not yet.” I smiled. The sound I was trying to emulate was used by U2, so it was impressive that she recognized it. Jerry and I had planned a capsule assortment of classic preamps in pedal format.
