I knew what to write, knew how the story went. It was etched into my soul like the lines of some ancient master’s work. Why was it so hard to type? Why did drafting this tale for the world to see feel like a betrayal?
My fingers found my mouse.
I closed the document so it couldn’t mock me further.
Then, for absolutely no discernable reason, I hit “new” in the menu bar.
A blank page appeared.
And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t write about David.
I wrote a single paragraph about a bar full of noise and a man at its center who moved through it like music, and about a quiet corner where someone had sat and watched and understood, without meaning to, that the performance and the person were not the same thing.
I read it back, saved it, and closed the laptop.
David’s chapter was incomplete.
Still, I’d written.
Chapter 7
Benji
By the end of week one, the Post-it situation had escalated beyond anything either of us could have predicted.
I came to think of it as The Great Post-it War.
It started, as these things often do, with milk.
On my fourth morning in Peter’s apartment, I’d opened the fridge to find a note stuck to the top shelf in Peter’s meticulous handwriting:
The milk goes on the left side. The right side is for animal medications. If you mix these up, something will die, and it might be you.
— P
It was a reasonable note, a practical note, a note written by a man who had a legitimate concern about the proximity of dairy products to veterinary pharmaceuticals. He’d chosen to express thatconcern through adhesive stationery rather than using his mouth like a person who lived in the twenty-first century.
I could have simply moved the milk.
That would have been the mature response.
It also would’ve been the response of a gracious houseguest who appreciated the free room and proximity to work and the fact that his host had yet to strangle him despite considerable provocation.
But I couldn’t help myself because, well, I was me.
I snatched a sticky from the pad by the fridge and scribbled a reply of my own.
The milk was already on the right. I moved it. Also, your animal meds should really be in a locked cabinet. Just saying. You’re giving me health code vibes.
— B
I stuck my note directly below his and went to work, feeling the warm glow of a man who had made a valid point and punctuated it with a hand-drawn sparkle emoji.
When I came home that night at 3 a.m., Peter’s response was waiting.
The medications are stored according to veterinary best practices for a home foster environment.The cabinet locks were on order before you arrived. Your concern is noted, and your emoji is unnecessary.
— P
