Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So what are we doing tonight?”

I put my hands on my hips when I ask him this question. I want to appear confident, but my body sways to the sides when I move my weight from foot to foot. I want to pretend that I don't care that I just shoved Marla out the door.

I didn't even invite Marla in. Tyler deftly dumps all of this on me -- just goes into another room. 

I don’t ask if we’re doing anything tonight . Tyler never makes plans for the two. His plans are always grand and ambitious. He makes plans for every member of Fight Club: for those who go on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, even on weekends. I am never a part of his plan. He never gets me on his schedule.

I ask what we are doing tonight because I miss the days when it was just us. Marla was stuck in with dying tubercles, unlike Tyler, who was now just as stuck in his room with his plans since Fight Club grew with each day.

I had a job, extra clean and ironed shirts and a set of ties for different days of the week. I didn't think I'd miss sharing one bottle of beer with a new friend of mine on the side of the road while covered in dust and blood.

I don't iron my shirts anymore.

Tyler turns around. He looks surprised for a moment. He had no plans for this evening, but after my question there suddenly are. Just for him to give me a smile and make it seem like he will cancel his plans. Lucky me.

“ Tonight we are making soap.”

He picks up a towel – the towel we use to wipe the dishes if someone suddenly dares to wash them – and wipes himself under his flowery shirt. It is hideously small on him – that’s the only reason why I lower my eyes on his bare hip when Tyler lifts his arms. 

He keeps talking. I can’t hear any of his muttering because of the cigarette in the corner of his lips and the little chuckle I hear him let out. He turns his back on me, and I’m forced to take my eyes off his tanned waist. 

I start looking around until I stumble upon the wall with photos on my left. I have no idea who these people are and I don’t want to ask Tyler why he left them hanging on the walls of his house.

To be honest, the first time I met Tyler, I would have never guessed that he made soap all on his own. He had an expensive jacket, a fancy business card, a black leather briefcase – the spitting image of a man who could run a business only through his phone calls. Back then, it was hard to imagine him standing over the bubbling pans and pouring fresh hot soap into the silicone molds.

And I am not exaggerating when I say that usually you don’t expect people to store cans of fat in their fridge. 

Nitroglycerin. 

Dangerous powders.

Bottles of chemicals.

We didn't even have food in the refrigerator.

“ Soap?”

I’ve become a person who’s more surprised at the suggestion of boiling soap together like a couple of boy scouts than at the suggestion of beating each other in the parking lot behind a bar. I have no idea how to make soap, and Tyler clearly prides himself on his "Paper Street Soap Co." reputation. 

I ask him this with a crooked grin on my face. You know, the type of grin you make when you obviously overdid yourself and your face just stays twisted into a weird emotion for a second. 

Tyler doesn’t turn around right away, but I know he recognized my facial expression only by the tone of my voice.  When he’s done with the towel, he turns his head. The cigarette is stretched out between his lips in a funny way – the usual face Tyler makes while taking a deep puff . I can hear paper cracking.

“To make good soap, first we need fat.”

The cigarette goes through his fingers. When Tyler turns, he rests his lower back on the kitchen cupboard.

“But we have to do it at night.” 

I look at my watch out of habit. I stopped wearing it long ago. 

I have to shake my hand, so I don’t look like a fool. 

Why…

“Why not now? While it's still light outside.”

I wave my hand to the fridge which is full of white sticky goo. 

“We need some good fat.”

Tyler lowers his chin and raises his eyebrows to give me a provocative look. I tilt my head and squint. I can act like I’m trying to figure out what he’s thinking about all I want, but no one can really know what’s going on inside Tyler’s head. I have to give up quickly.

I don’t really care what we're doing tonight.

If we make soap all night, there will be no Marla in this house. 

And it’s still light outside. 

When the sky is gray, you don’t really know what time it is.

Tyler didn’t have any clocks at home. 

There was no time in this house.

“Fine” , I say, shrug and then search the room for something. My eyes land on the dirty cluttered table.

“Where are we gonna do this?”

We have no clean dishes. We have no free space on the table. Even the whole stove is full of pots: there is only one free burner, on which Tyler makes toasts for us in the morning. I can barely eat it because it tastes like propane. 

I don’t like this smell.

Tyler runs his fingers through his hair, I can hear fingernails scratching his scalp. He examines the mess on the table and then scoffs. His mouth opens as if he wanted to say something, but Tyler interrupts his own thought with a cigarette and takes another puff. 

He looks at the sink, which is full of dishes. He looks at the windowsills, which are covered with a layer of filth. He looks at the shards of glass from a broken window, which no one has cleaned in all this time. 

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I cross my arms on my chest and tilt my head, trying to hide a smirk. I like it when Tyler admits that I might be right about something. Obviously, I can’t preach to him the same way he does – I’m not that full of useful information – but it always feels nice to convince Tyler Durden, of all people, to clean up a bit.

I used to clean up my old condo every time I felt miserable about my own life. 

There are days when you feel like you are just living the same day over and over. When you feel like you have no control over your life. You go through each room in your home, having a deep-clean checklist in your head. 

Dusting, hoovering, mopping. 

Wash bedding at 60 degrees. Tuck your Myskgräs duvet in a fresh one.

Clean up your Njurunda table. Adjust the cushions on the Haparanda sofa.

You know the rest.

I stopped cleaning my apartment when I started going to support groups. I started enjoying each day of my life. Even the most boring ones. Now, every thought of my day being a copy of a previous one brought me joy as I walked home in my shirt soaked with other people’s tears.

The last time I cleaned up was in the room Tyler so graciously spared me – the floor was too grimy to walk on.

Tyler pushes himself off the kitchen cupboard. The cigarette paper cracks between his fingers after another puff. After that, he throws a cigarette butt into one of the cups. 

When Tyler comes up to me, I stand still for a while and watch him start cleaning up. Soon I realize he sorts things in no order at all, putting almost everything in a free pot. There’s something black burned at the bottom of the pot, but I know nor I want to know what it is exactly. 

“Will you help me or are you just gonna stand there and smile?”

I hear a note of resentment in his voice. Cleaning was torture for him for sure – he had no idea what he was doing.

Yeah, I say. I take a few steps away from him.

There’s a metal box decorated with a picture with a bouquet of flowers. Rose petals are crushed in a metal case so that the bunch of flowers seem bulky. Earlier in this box there were probably cookies. Now, probably, nails. I’m shaking the box.

“What’s in there?”

Tyler stands by my shoulder now. He probably got too bored putting all the garbage in the old utensil, so he decided to stand by me while I did all the work. I turn my head towards him, unconsciously, but I flinch when I see how close he is. 

“Pills”, I say. I push myself to the edge of the counter with my hip to distance myself from him. Sometimes I feel like he has no sense of personal space at all. It annoys me every time, but I don’t have the strength to ask him to back off. “ First aid kit.”

He mutters to himself

“We have one in the bathroom.”

Tyler takes the box out of my hands and shakes it again. I watch – not without interest – how silvery blisters of pills shine under the faint light. Some of them were quite old – stored in old, time yellowed paper packages. 

Tyler looks at the box like he knows what the pills are in front of him. I’m waiting for him to tell me something new and useful – as he usually does – and I can’t help but smirk.

“Aspirin”, Tyler clamps one of the blisters between his fingers while trying to find something more interesting, “ Good thing there’re no kids in this house. If you eat too much, after excessive vomiting and losing consciousness, you can kill the liver and get brain swelling. Have you ever thought about how a headache remedy can kill a child?”

I have migraines from time to time. I feel that I’ll have another one if Tyler continues to describe all the ways to kill a child.

“No. No, I hadn't thought of that.”

Tyler folds the package in half and shoves it down the neck of an empty beer bottle. He turns to me, and I see a big grin on his face.

“If children were allowed to drink alcohol, along with a dose of aspirin it would cause them gastric bleeding. Adults, too, by the way.” 

Ah.

I cross my arms on my chest one more time. Sometimes I don’t even know what to do with them. When Tyler stands too close, I’m scared to accidentally hit him, so I’m trying to take up as little space as possible. When Tyler talks, he always likes to wave his hands. Hand gestures are a powerful part of communication, they say. 

It’s hard to look away from him when he lectures you about something. 

I’m almost embracing myself with my arms as I turn to see both Tyler’s face and the box in his hand. I want him to tell me more. Just in case Marla suddenly decides to take another dose of pills. What should I do? How long should I wait? What percentage of brain damage will she get? 

“ Anything else? ”

“Cerivastatin. Lipobay.”

I’m leaning closer to him, unconsciously , because I can’t make out what Tyler’s saying. He puts the iron box on the table so that his free hand can scratch his chin thoughtfully. He lets out a laugh at his own thoughts. His laugh sounds silly, almost idiotic – the kind of giggle that Tyler makes when he thinks of something disgusting.

“Pills for the lazy ones. Anticholesterol drug. Turn into a butterball, then try to solve all of your health problems with a pill. I wonder how many fatsos bought that. ”

I know there’s more.

“What does it do?”

“Muscle damage. Kills your kidneys.”

I’m nodding thoughtfully. This first aid kit could be used as a representation of the previous owner of this house. 

Painkillers. Acetaminophen. Lisinopril. Omeprazole. Atenolol. I don’t know half of the names. Tyler knows all the side effects.

“Do you know of any *positive* effects of these pills?”

Tyler giggles some more and then sighs as if he wanted to take a draw at a cigarette. 

While Tyler is thumbing through a box, taking out all the colorful pills that have no packaging, I decide to ask.

“Anything you can die of?”

Tyler rolls the pink pill he just found between his fingers, then throws it in his mouth like a candy. 

“Wh– What are you–”

“You have plans?”

He grins.

“Is it so hard *not* to put anything you find into your mouth? You are aware those might be expired, right?”

Tyler tilts his head towards me and stares at me for a few seconds. He looks unimpressed by my reaction. After that, he shrugs his shoulders and returns to his original position.

“It certainly won't hurt me. ”

He has a new blister of pills between his fingers. He hands it to me the same way he handed me his card on the plane. 

“Klonopin. Suitable for all having troubles sleeping. Calms you down, reduces anxiety…”

He speaks slowly all of a sudden. 

I interrupt Tyler with my hand shaking. I know the rest. 

“You have to take a lot of pills to die, ya' know? Or at least drink them with alcohol.”

“Yeah, yeah” , I keep waving my hand off and this time I wince. I don’t want to imagine myself vomiting, shaking, and slipping into a coma. 

“Why ask if you know, smartass?”

Tyler puts the pills back in the box and closes its lid.

“Making sure you know everything.”

“Oh. I know exactly what to do after a Xanax overdose .” 

He’s playing with me again. I’m wrinkling my face in a weird expression as if I had made an attempt at a smile. It looks like I’m right about to expose my upper teeth. “ Really? ”

“Yeah”, he smiles back. “When someone calls you after being drugged... you shouldn’t hang up and leave.”

Tyler leans closer to me, his hand against the counter. He moves his weight on one leg so that his hip peeks out from under his shirt again. He’s so close I can smell the mixture of tobacco, sweat and his cologne. 

Tyler looks at my face and he is waiting for something.

I don’t want to talk about his Marla Singer rescue mission one more time.

I hate when Tyler stands so close because every time he does so my shoulders get heavy and I start breathing like an idiot. 

I can’t come up with anything witty to say. We look at each other for a while. In complete silence. Each of us waits for the other to turn away. It's like a competition, which Tyler always predictably wins.

I turn away first, grab an empty plate on the table and then start collecting all the dirty dishes in one pile.

I wish I’d brought some rubber gloves. If I don’t get killed by the expired meds in the box, the mold on those plates will do the job. 

“Next time you call Marla over, ask her to leave by yourself. I don’t really want to sort her out one more time.”

Tyler takes a big black trash bag. The one they use to hide the bodies on screen. He starts to dump all the garbage, something hits the floor shattering. The noise won’t let me finish and it drowns out half my speech. 

I roll my eyes.

You just can’t discuss any of your problems with Tyler. If he has nothing to say, he just pretends he can’t hear you. 

When the center of the table becomes somewhat empty, Tyler drags the trash bag across the floor to the front door and then throws it into the yard. I just cringe as I hear the breaking glass.

I watch Tyler come back into the house. I look at his ridiculous plush slippers. They clearly belonged to the previous owner – they were too small for him and the fabric was soaked in dust so bad it turned black in some spots. Tyler walks by as if I’m not even in the room and then goes up to the second floor. 

I’m tempted to ask him something, but I can only frown.

The mountain of dishes in the sink gets only bigger when I add up the plates from the counter. I want to try to clean it up, but as soon as my fingers touch something greasy in one of the cups I just snap my hand back.

I’m not going near this sink anymore.

I call out to Tyler a few times , loudly , as I climb the stairs, but I can’t hear a single response except for the creaking floor under my feet. 

I look down. There are some oil spots on my tank top. I must've gotten it on me while cleaning. 

I don’t actually own that many clothes to ignore this. 

We have a lot of toothbrushes in our bathroom. I keep mine in a separate glass and all the others are piled on the sink’s side. They probably belonged to the previous tenants, but now I use them to clean the dirt and blood off my clothes, shoes and furniture sometimes. 

So, it’s really no surprise if you stumble upon a toothbrush in some weird place here or there.

And yet, the toothbrushes weren’t the weirdest thing you could find in a house on Paper Street.

I never close the bathroom door. 

First , we never closed any of the doors in this house. 

Secondly , this door doesn’t close at all. You may try to shut it, but it will only open with a terrible squeak .

I take off my shirt, turn on the faucet and wait for all the rusty water to flow through the low hum of the pipes. I’m thinking about how Marla leaned close to me the last time I cleaned my clothes. I try to ignore the memory of her touching me, but I can feel the my hair on the back of my head stand up when I think of her hand on my waist. 

I look in the mirror with an empty head for a while before catching my own face in the reflection and realizing that too much water has flowed down the drain.

I don’t like people touching me. I don’t like Marla touching me. 

I was ready to share my tuberculosis, melanoma, brain cancer and parasites with her. 

Now, Marla wants us to share Tyler . 

I left her all the support groups, but she just can’t help but take away everything I like.

I don’t really get what Marla wants to achieve when she touches me. She ruffles my hair sometimes. Or touches my shoulder with her skinny fingers. At some point, she just started to talk to me in a strange way. 

I rarely speak to people outside my work and even more rarely I’ve spoken to women in person, but I can notice a change in Marla’s voice, in her face and in her behavior when it happens. Sometimes Marla acts like she’s a little, helpless girl who wants to be noticed and, maybe, pitied. Then she hikes up her dress and it becomes clear that she wants something else.

I don’t like Marla. Not in that way. Marla has Tyler. I’m not joining them in some kind of trouple. Although I do know that Tyler would be fine with it.

I’m trying to imagine what three of us would look like while I’m cleaning out the grease stain on my shirt. Turns out, it’s a hard thing to do , because I have no idea what Marla and Tyler do in the bedroom. 

Well, I know what they do, but I have no idea how . 

Sometimes Tyler screams so loud, I can guarantee people don’t scream this way in the porn tapes he collects. 

Besides, why would you yell like that when you’re with a woman?

All the images appear in my head against my own will. They look hazy, as a reflection in the misty glass. Marla’s touch makes me feel uncomfortable and even scared in some way. When I think about Tyler, I can only feel my guts twist.

There are some formal gestures that I’m comfortable with.

I shake hands with my colleagues at work, I hug half-dead people in support groups.

Tyler hugs me sometimes when I get home from work – other days he doesn’t even show up until we accidentally cross our paths late at night . 

I don’t need to say that hugging Tyler has nothing in common with hugging Chloe, although they both like to talk about their porn tape collections. 

Chloe talks about them with pure desperation. And Tyler talks about them as a joke and his sloppy giggling sounds rather disgusting. 

I don’t even know why would you  want to keep stuff like that at home. 

I’m a 30-year-old boy, and the intimacy between people scares me just as much as when I was a kid and saw two actors kissing on screen in a movie. 

I just want to look away and close my eyes. 

I don’t know where it comes from. 

But I’m used to Tyler being unusually tactile for a man. 

You know , men don’t touch each other at all . Hands permitted to make contact with others in greeting only. You’re like a little corporate soldier greeting your peer. If you’re feeling adventurous, you get to casually pat someone’s shoulder. Just make sure to do it with enough force.

The occasional thrown fist is allowed to roam more freely.

Sometimes , when Tyler held his hand for a handshake, he would then grab another man’s wrist. Usually , you never expect to be caught by the wrist during a handshake. 

It’s confusing, to put it mildly.

The first time he did that, two of his fingers slipped under my shirt sleeve for a moment. Tyler’s skin is pretty soft and I remember vividly how he squeezed my wrist and his fingers touched my veins. I didn’t know that a handshake could feel so intimidating, yet painfully intimate.

What can you do after such a thing? Just let out an embarrassed laugh.

Tyler does it as if it’s normal. He’s never been embarrassed by anything. He’s Tyler.

I felt awkward about how close Tyler usually stands by someone while talking. When there’s a lot of people in the room, he goes around in circles and tries to get along with everyone for a while. When there are just the two of you, he just leans closer and closer until you end up touching each other with his knees or shoulders. But it always happens in such a slow manner that it’s easier for both of you to pretend that you don’t feel each other’s body heat through your clothes. 

If I could impersonate people, I could perfectly imitate the way Tyler acts. I remember every little detail of his behavior.

Sometimes when I’m too busy with something in my room or I’m consumed by my paperwork, I mumble to myself the haikus I make up in my mind or quotes I hear on TV. Sometimes I repeat some of Tyler’s words. They do not always make sense, most of the time I just repeat the things which seem funny to me. 

Tyler shortens his words in a funny manner and makes some weird sounds when he talks. Sometimes his mouth remains open in the middle of a sentence because he rolls a piece of gum with his tongue from one side to the other.

I turn on the water in the bath because I feel like I need to wash Marla's hands off me. I don’t want to think about how her fingers got soaked in Tyler overnight so she can wipe them off on me later. 

I don’t know Marla as well as I know Tyler, but only because I don’t feel like watching her. I would rather try to avoid Marla, but she’s always at the edge of my vision like a black spot that appears if you look at the sun long enough. 

I don’t think Marla ever tried to get more attention by the way she looked, but deeply, subconsciously, she definitely wanted it. I usually don’t want to look at her at all, but sometimes she is just impossible to ignore. Like a light bulb flickering in a room. Light bulbs prone to flicker if they are dying, but usually you don't change the bulb and just wait for it to burn out. 

As a cloud of steam rises to the ceiling because of the hot water in the tub, I go back to the sink. I notice a spot of residue on my chest on my way and I try to remove the sticky dirt with a snap of my fingers, but it turns into a scratch and I can see the blooming bruise under it. I slightly wince. 

The light in the bathroom is very faint. Yellowish-green. 

I lift my wet tank top up to the round lamp on the wall above the door and I try to see if there are stains on it left. I squinted for a long time until some new dark spot appeared on it.

I look over the wet cloth and I see Tyler. 

“You could use a bath.”

Tyler points his finger either on the shirt or on me, but does not linger in the doorway. He goes inside the room and plopls down on the edge of the bath. I can hear the sound of nail clippers.

Once again, I don’t know where to put my arms and I don’t know what to do with the wet cloth in my hands. I don’t want to put it back on my body, but I don’t want to stand in front of Tyler like this either. I shrug, trying to get rid of an unpleasant feeling on my shoulders and turn my back to see myself in a murky piece of mirror. 

I take my shirt off in the basement of the club. I undress myself when I go to the bath and Tyler sits on the floor, making up another pop quiz.

But I even sleep in a T-shirt. 

I wait till there is enough water for me to sit in the tub and stop feeling weird.

“If…”

Tyler stops to give away a quiet "hmm" and try again .

“If you could watch two celebrities fight, who would you pick?”

I look at the ceiling in surprise for a second and then I turn my head over my shoulder. I can’t help but give out a crooked smile.

“What kind of question is that?”

Tyler shrugs and purses his lips in his usual manner.

“Two celebrities. Who?”

I can’t help laughing, but I have to think for a while.

“Mother Teresa and Princess Diana.”

He starts laughing too.

“What kind of answer is that?”

I’m shrugging, mimicking his expression.

“You?”

Tyler finishes with his left hand.

“Jesus and Prophet Muhammad.”

“Wow” , I shake my head. 

Seems like this is one of the stupidest questions Tyler’s ever made up. 

I let myself think for some time, trying to come up with any interesting pairs. 

“The bath is ready. Sir.”

He nods behind his back and gets distracted by his right hand, apparently not planning to turn to me again. I shift my weight from foot to foot for a while before I reach for my pants. 

I get into the warm water and lie down on the tub's wall so that Tyler stays behind me. I hear him cutting his nails through the sound of swishing water. 

We used to sit in the same room when Tyler was bathing, but somehow I still have trouble getting used to it. The shower used to be my cave back then. A safe place, if you will . 

I can feel Tyler’s every movement with my back. We stay silent all this time and all I can hear is click, click.

Tyler stretches his hand out and looks at his nails.  I can hear him turning around.

“Aw, man, that looks like shit.”

I sit in a daze for a moment before reluctantly turning to him.

“ What?”

He points his finger at my back but – obviously – I can’t see a thing. I lean forward, my chest against my knees, and try to see what he sees. Unsuccessful. I gently touch my shoulder, then move my finger down the spine until I feel some niggling pain. 

It’s probably from the time one of the guys threw me on the hard concrete. It was Wednesday, I think. I move my hand, trying to figure out how bad the damage is. 

“Can’t see anything. Must be a bruise.”

If it wasn’t for Tyler, I never would have paid attention to it. I gently look up at his face, cautiously , while he’s busy looking for the right bottle on the edge of the tub. Somehow, there’s a new cigarette between his lips and I can smell the smoke. 

How did I miss the smell before?

Tyler mumbles some tune while he takes a piece of cotton wool out of the package and unscrews the peroxide cap. Tyler has absolutely no ear for music, and I can only tell that he’s trying to hum a melody because I have heard him sing it before. I’m using the term loosely here . It seems funny to me, but all I can think of is the bitter pain behind my shoulder.

I stop looking at Tyler’s face and look away with a hiss instead. A few seconds later, I can feel his warm palm pressing against me with a piece of cotton. I scowl and stare at the running water, trying to ignore how warm his hand is. 

“You better keep it clean and dry, champ.” 

Tyler pulls away and I can hear him taking a deep puff. I press my back against the ceramic wall again. After a brief pause I see Tyler holding out his hand with a cigarette – he holds his hand close to my face, but I just take it with my fingers. 

I inhale briefly. 

I don’t like smoking. I just don’t get the pleasure Tyler shares with Marla. You can say that I’m a social smoker, but I’ve never done it with anyone else besides Tyler. There’s something deeply intimate about sharing a cigarette.

I want to give the cigarette back to him, but his hand disappears behind my back. I look at the smoke with some confusion before putting the cigarette back to my lips.

Tyler starts preaching again. I don’t listen to him. I’ve learned to look interested in others' rants since I started to go to support groups, so I know the perfect time to nod. Sometimes I think Tyler’s an annoying fly over my ear. You can try to get rid of it as much as you want, but it’ll come back.

Tyler recounts how much he hates TV shows while spinning in front of the mirror, trying to figure out how long his hair has grown. It has started curling up in the back of his head so it means that the time has come for a trim. Tyler continues to admire himself, sometimes leaning very close to the mirror and running his fingers over his jaw as if he was looking for something on his face.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. After that, I realize that I haven’t reacted to his speech for too long and he’s been silent for far too long as well. 

“Mm, yeah” , I put my cigarette in my mouth and look up at the ceiling.

Tyler’s like an annoying fly because every time he disappears, he just comes back and keeps buzzing in my ear. Sometimes I hope that if I look at one point long enough, he will leave me alone. When he’s gone, I start to miss him. 

Rinse and repeat.

Water is touching my shoulders and I turn off the faucet. I keep the cigarette between my lips so I don’t wet it with my fingers. 

When I lay back, Tyler looms over my face. He takes the cigarette out of my mouth and I writhe faintly. Because the smoke got in my eye. Or because Tyler got too close again. I dunno.

His fingers touch my lips for a split second and when I turn away I lick them unconsciously, immediately spitting into the water. Does he do this with Marla?

I feel like an idiot.

There is such a Greek word: idiot. Iδιώτης . I feel like an idiot because I’m forced to share what’s mine.

Tyler is looking at me. Closely. My shoulders are getting heavy again, my lungs are twisting and I start to breathe weirdly. I feel the need to distract myself, so I find an old towel and a bar of soap.

I sigh.

“So, why Jesus?”

I look at Tyler sideways and notice a look of confusion on his face. 

Does he look like a fighter to you? What about "If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also"?

Tyler squints oddly. He makes this face when I say something smart in his opinion. I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I start washing the dirt and sweat off my body like my life depends on it.

“If you let him win, I think he would have become a different man. You know, Jesus fights till he dies.”

I laugh briefly. Jesus would fight to the last and then we would all wait for the Second Coming the next month in Lou’s basement. 

Tyler is sitting on the floor by the bathroom now. He takes the last drag and throws the cigarette butt into the ashtray. His head resting in his palms. Tyler suddenly starts almost whispering.

“Would you turn the other cheek?”

I stop wiping my shoulder with a towel and slowly turn my head to him.

“What? I dunno” , you subconsciously pick up on the fact that someone is whispering for a reason and start whispering back at them. “ You look like someone who would do that .”

It must have something to do with all of Tyler’s thoughts about hitting the bottom. My answer is probably a sign that I’m not ready to hit a new low. I look at his face for a while. Tyler squints.

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. We'll just tackle this thing together, one little baby step at a time.”

I just had no idea what was waiting for me in a few hours.

But I didn’t like us having this conversation again.

I didn’t like Tyler thinking that Marla was closer to the bottom than I was.

“What exactly?”

It was impossible not to ask this question. Out of fear, or at least out of interest. 

The next second I pretend like I’m not interested in his answer. 

“Spare me your thoughts for a second.”

Tyler is like an annoying fly because every time I flinch he comes back. And it gets more annoying every time. And if a fly is just annoying, Tyler scares me.

I do not know what to do with someone else's intimacy because I don’t even remember the last time I hugged someone sincerely.

Tyler has a hard look in his eye, though he’s trying to look innocent. As a baby.

“Are you mad or something?”

I’m ten years old, and my mom grabs my hand when I walk past her with eyes full of tears. 

Tyler’s holding my hand. By my wrist. 

I missed the moment it happened.

I stretch my arm and try to pull it on myself, but when I realize that my efforts are going nowhere I only exhale noisily. My fist relaxes and hangs in Tyler’s grip. 

I turn my face to the wall because I am not sure what emotion I need to act out right now. 

“Hey.”

Tyler gently shakes my hand as if it were a toy. My hand is hanging as if it were a rag doll. 

Suddenly I feel uncomfortable in the warm water. I feel uncomfortable because I am completely naked in front of the man who holds me by my wrist.

Tyler doesn’t care how I look, he’s just trying to see my face. 

“Look” , I give out a chuckle that sounds so natural it could be advertised on TV. All natural, no additives, no preservatives.

I don’t know what else to say to him. 

I want him out of the bathroom. 

Even though I know that the door won’t close.

I reluctantly turn my head in Tyler's direction.

I don’t have time to say anything because Tyler starts pulling my wrist. The pain is awful. He twists my arm so that he can see the back of my palm. 

I can’t keep myself from the noisy breath. I have to press my shoulder against the wall to make my arm hurt less.

Tyler almost examines my hand. He’s squeezing my palm so tight he can see my pale veins through my skin. I strain my fingers trying to free myself.

Tyler rubs my palm with his thumb and then imitates a weak handshake.

His face is too close, and I’m breathing too loud. 

I want to close my eyes, but I’m just frowning instead. 

My hand is very close to his face. I can almost feel his hot breath. 

After that, Tyler twists my hand again so that now it’s my turn to see the back of my palm. I wonder what’s so interesting there. 

My fingers tremble. 

Tyler tilts his head closer so he can see what I see. He puts his chin on his own hand, which holds mine , and I can feel his cheek with my index finger. 

“Your life is in your hands. In these. ”

His hand starts shaking because of mine.

“I wouldn’t put my life in those hands. Would you?”

Tyler squeezes my hand tighter, and I stretch out all my fingers again. It stops shaking, but I can hear my joint cracking softly.

I can barely understand what he says. All I hear is blood pounding in my ears and my laboured breath. 

I feel my heart about to go up my throat. I lower my gaze and look at Tyler’s neat and well-groomed hands, which squeeze my thin pale palm. 

In fact, I never had an option to put my life in any other hands. 

I would put my life in Tyler’s, but I’ve been hanging around his neck for a long time already. Since the day I lost my condo. 

I feel like the steam from the hot water starts to strangle me, and this whole moment takes an enternity. 

“We need to do something about this.”

Tyler lets go of my hand. I immediately put it into the water and unconsciously begin to rub the palm with my other hand. 

I want to wipe his touch off my fingers.

After all this time in the bathroom, I feel dirty again. I don’t want to look at my hands. 

I give Tyler a glance.

He smiles in the usual manner and I hear a chuckle. He pats me on the shoulder and then squeezes it with his fingers for a second. It almost makes me bend my neck.

I think about the way he pressed his palm against my back, and this thought drills into my skull, trying to form itself into something else. I force myself to suppress it. 

Tyler is already halfway through the doorway. He sticks to the doorjamb before disappearing around the corner of the room.

- Wear something dark.