The next nightI’m just pulling Vin’s favorite chicken and rice out of the oven when he comes through the front door, home from helping Raff haul and assemble a new bed frame. I wasn’t sure I’d see him before I left for the potluck. I haven’t invited him yet, and I thought I’d feed him first, in case he doesn’t end up wanting to go. And here he is, groaning, hungry, locking the door.
“Damn,that smells good,” he says. And then, casually, like he’s not performing open heart surgery: “Hi, baby,” he adds as he looks through the mail on the counter.
Thisbabything that he reignited on Tuesday has not letup.
Baby?he calls from across the apartment.What’s the password for our ConEd account?Or,Baby, my mom’s on the phone and she wants your lentil soup recipe.Or worst yet,Let me, baby,he said as he popped out of nowhere on the sidewalk outside our laundromat, taking the laundry bag from my hands.
He’s been slowly tenderizing me with these endearments. You’d think that would mean I’d be gently softening up. But no. Have you ever even seen what a tenderizer looks like? It’s a serratedmalletthat you use to beat the shit out of a piece of meat. And that’s exactly how I feel. Like something that’s pliable only because I’ve had the shit kicked out of me.
(Expansive, not over, infinity,and now this:baby)…Helpme.
“Baby?” he calls, now, from the running shower.
I place my forehead on the closed bathroom door, squeezing my eyes closed. “Yeah?”
“I forgot my towel.”
“Sure, sure,” I’m muttering to myself as I storm into his room and rip the towel off the back of the door. I’m smoldering and sore. “People get towels for other people. It’s the human thing to do. The decent thing. It’s what people do for each other.”
I’m turning to leave when my blood freezes over. I can barely make myself believe what I’m seeing as I stand there, rigid and icy.
How do I emphasize what I’m looking at strongly enough? Just imagine I write the next words with daggers, and on each drag of the blade, a line of blood blooms in cursive:
Leaning up against his wall are a line of just-boughtmoving boxes.
The air goes out of me on a jagged gasp. I would not have been more shocked if there had been a Playboy bunny in Vin’s bed.
I guess this move is still on!
So, why fix Esther’s light fixture? Why get a drink with St. Michel? Why feed Surya’s fish? Why, why, why, baby, baby, baby if he was always going to leave, leave, leave?
I know he wants to “do for me” but this is just cruel.
On autopilot I hand the towel in to him without looking. I walk stiffly to the kitchen and put the finishing touches on dinner. When did he buy them? How long have they been in there?
And most importantly, when is he going to putthingsin those boxes and then take those boxes away?
He’s out of the shower now; it won’t be long until he’s sitting down at the table.
I’m muttering to myself, trying to talk myself down fromopening the fridge door and screaming into it. “Thewhenisn’t important, Roz. He’s been very clear that it’s going to happen.I’ll go,he said. And he will.”
I wait until he’s seated. I’ve placed warm bread in front of him, next to the chicken and rice, beside the salad. He’s leaning in, eyes closed, inhaling the scent.
He’s soft, open, definitely not expecting it.
“What are you planning to eat once you move out?”
His eyes pop open and he scans me.What’s going on here?I can hear him thinking.
“I mean,” I continue, arms crossed, plate empty. “I’m just curious. When you signed the lease, were you thinking about that at all?”
He clears his throat. And, to his credit, takes a scoop of chicken and rice. Brave man. “I haven’t,” he says.
“Well, maybe we should think about it now. I can write down some easy meals for you. Things you can make a bunch of at the beginning of the week and then eat for a few days.”
“No,” he says with a shake of his head, “I meant that I haven’t si—”
But I cut him off, too scared he’ll call mebabyagain.
