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The door slammed on her face, sharp and precise, almost aiming to hit her. She winced as it did, parts due to the rejection but mostly at the creaky hinges she never fixed, worried the force could have torn it right out of its spot.
It didn't, door stayed put, as did she, frozen... staring, expecting it to swing back open.
It never did.
Her heart broke twice that month, on the 12th when her cat got ill, then again on the 28th when then-girlfriend chose to add the cherry on top.
A huge fuck you to their future, to add insult to injury dead cat and "dead to me" girlfriend.
It wasn't easy adjusting to the silence, house used to be chaos.
Cat is always onto something.
Dropping something.
Breakfast was dull and tasteless, she couldn't afford any more salt.
Unseasoned eggs for a flavorless life, she was always told to be a boring woman.
Figured it might be true, it's probably time she gets a job, another fuckass one with bad pay and annoying coworkers who can't help but tell her to "loosen up a little", that her shoulders are awfully tense.
She spent all her savings saving her cat.
All in vain, no cat, no savings, no girlfriend, no salt on the damn scrambled eggs.
She remembers arguing about how there was never enough salt added to them, real bummer is that she's right. They're awful unsalted.
Dropped breakfast for a pack of cigs, not like she's a smoker—not addicted—could drop it any time, just doesn't want to right now.
It only makes her think about how they used to puff clouds on each other's faces,
that it make her giggle.
That this also used to be the cat's food bowl, full of ashes now.
Just like the urn, she can't bring herself to move off the kitchen table, awkwardly set down on a spot she's obligated to look at.
She's not an emotional woman.
Not over a cat she wouldn't.
She puts out her cigarette and stains the porcelain bowl as she stands up, kicking a hoodie that doesn't belong to her, or her home, out of the way.
She boots up her laptop, excusing it for a job search, not really—probably takeout again, maybe Netflix. If she hated herself enough, Prime.
She types "Jobs that pay in cash and I don't ask questions" into Google, then deletes it.
Types "Jobs for emotionally unavailable women" next, for the bit.
Jobs that don't require pants or a personality.
This is almost funny enough.
Whatever, she's miserable.
Twitter. Kind of place only miserable people go.
There, something eye-catching that someone in her following reposted, an urgent ad about rehoming a puppy.
"FREE DOG!!!
Female only!! 20s preferred. Must be single.
(Dog's choice, not ours.)
URGENT REHOMING — TODAY ONLY"
That sounds so dumb. How can a dog have preferences?
That's enough to make her click on the thread, reading through the vague details, it's messy and pretty desperate. They need to get rid of this thing ASAP.
Apparently... This dog has "a history with couples" and "needs a woman who won't break his heart."
She laughs for the first time in weeks.
Fuck it.
She DM's them, filling out the form.
Worse things have walked into her home.
The weirdo answers right away, with a thumbs-up emoji.
2B stares for a minute.
Then types "Can I have that mutt or not?"
They told her to meet them at a Taco Bell close to her house. Great!
Getting kidnapped right after double grief.
Perfect Sunday afternoon.
She grabs her lighter, car, and home keys.
Heads straight to her car, pausing only to light the cigarette.
Before struggling to turn her junk Honda Civic 2008 that hates her almost sentiently.
The parking lot smells like cheesy concrete.
And tobacco.
She smells like tobacco.
She tosses the dog-end somewhere at the passenger side feet, if somehow her car explodes over it, then God is real and saving her.
But it doesn't, she swings her car door open and steps outside. It's not late enough for murder, so she's feeling fine, still, just late enough for getting mugged at a Taco Bell parking lot, so not too fine.
She stands there, leaning against her car and checking her phone, almost ready to send a "where u at" but a fuckass chihuahua sounding bark grabs her focus.
A gorgeous lady, blond, nice eyes, big tits—not in an objectifying way but still looking for sure—waved at her excitedly.
She was wearing a mask and in some pretty revealing clothing. 2B doesn't care.
And walks right up to her, "thank god you're a woman" written all over her face.
It's short-lived.
'Cause crawling down on that dirty taco floor is a whole ass man.
Or better, man-dog, little guy, literally just a dude.
The beautiful woman speaks up.
"Hi! Oh my gosh, thank you so much, I was so worried we wouldn't find him a place on time."
She's listening. Pretty women have that effect on her
"Yeah, sure." She nods.
When the girl hands her the leash, she just takes it, no double-take, no nothing.
That woman kept talking for a while, but 2B didn't hear any of it.
Suddenly, she's walking away and waving, probably smiling under the mask.
And she's left there, holding a genuine, probably hand-crafted and expensive, leather leash.
For a human person.
She looks down, the "dog" looking up at her.
The man-dog yips.
She stares, there's no real expression on her face.
"You do taxes?"
He nods.
"...Get in the car."
Her car radio barely works, but she thinks about putting a random furry song to play out loud, and smirks about it.
She laughs at her own jokes—but doesn't share them, the comedy is private.
He doesn't bark or whine the entire time. She thinks she's lucky because at least it's quiet.
Though having a man bark at her door whenever her neighbor took out the trash would be amusing.
Honestly, this isn't that different from getting an actual dog.
Except it is.
He speaks English, she hopes.
She parks half-assedly, well enough to not get yelled at, but still, bad enough to piss them off anyway—and lights up another cigarette before stepping out of the car, just as an excuse to not say anything.
She can stop whenever she wants to, of course.
Slams the door shut and takes a few steps near her place.
It's an apartment, but it looks like those side-of-the-road hotels, the two-floor ones with the iron stairs on the side, perfect for the indie horror setting.
He doesn't follow.
She puffs out a heavy cloud of smoke, then glares back at her car
"Do you walk?" She asks, a bit harsher than she intended.
He gets out right away, standing upright now, and tentatively takes a few steps in her direction.
She locks her car and turns away.
They walk up a few stairs, and he's silently thankful he's been allowed to walk, though it's obvious her living conditions aren't exactly... awesome.
She opens the door, which was left unlocked.
"You can sit on the couch—" She stops thinking of what a man dog would prefer to do.
"—or like, the rug. Just don't piss anywhere," She says, not unkindly. Just unsure.
He curls up exactly where she points.
She ignores it and sits down on her couch, legs up on the table.
Doesn't ask him to leave.
And that's enough.
He lies there on the floor, an old rug the only thing between him and the cold.
She grabs a cereal box and starts eating it straight, no milk, seems like a habit, since the box was already there to begin with.
He sits up and stares when he hears the plastic rustling of the bag.
"What? You want a treat?" She doesn't sound amused or serious either.
But he seems to perk up anyway, and she regrets it.
"Cool." She looks around for a second, scratches her tummy, completely comfortable despite the stranger in her home.
Then grabs her phone, focuses on it for a little bit before asking
"You're not vegan, right?" She drops the screen off her face to look at the dude sitting on her apartment floor.
He shakes his head.
"I'm getting you a kids' meal lol," She says, L.O.L out loud, but her tone is dull and monotone.
He watches as she places the order on her phone, not saying anything.
But giddy about getting a treat anyway.
Around an hour later, she's back on her couch, opening the take-out bag.
Takeout receipt says "Zoob."
"Zoob," She reads out loud with a small smile. "That's how you spell it."
"Dog" whines quietly from the floor.
And she turns her gaze to him, reaching into the bag to take out their sandwiches, mouth already full of fries.
He sits up now, on his knees, getting closer to the table.
She tosses him a fry.
"Zoob feeds you." She announces,
Raising the burger a little ceremoniously, then plops it down in front of him, takes the nuggets and fries, resting the boxes on herself so she can eat lying down watching TV, feet on the table.
Acting as comfortably as someone who is home alone, in their own place.
Or home alone with their pet—actual dog.
He unwraps the burger slowly, reverently.
She doesn't say anything for a bit, flipping through Netflix like she'll magically find something that doesn't suck. She doesn't.
He watches, hoping she will end up picking something... eventually.
It's an hour later.
He's somewhere by the couch, near her feet, curled up again.
Still hasn't made a single sound, which she's starting to find suspicious. Either he's extremely well-trained, or just terrified.
Both options are fine.
She wipes her hands on her pants and stands up.
Walks past him, kind of has to jump over his body.
Stops.
"You speak English?" she asks.
He nods immediately.
"You just don't talk?"
He just stares, no nod, no head shake.
She exhales slowly. What the fuck does that mean?
"Cool." She doesn't care.
She walks off toward the bathroom, doesn't come out for a while.
He stays where he is, watching the show she randomly selected, out of pure boredom, not interest.
When she finally returns, towel around her shoulders, hair wet, she walks right past him again and sits on the couch—same hoodie, just new underwear.
No pants at all.
He glanced her way once the door opened, but quickly turned away.
They watch the series in silence for a while.
"This show sucks," She whines, tossing the towel off her shoulder somewhere on the couch.
To her annoyance, he doesn't answer.
"Can you speak?" That's barely a question, more like a sarcastic jab.
"Yes, I can—" He says with an exhale, sounding like an exasperated sigh of relief. "—By the way, most of the zombies were played by actual dancers and gymnasts so they could do those freaky body twitches. That's commitment. I'd let them eat me." He goes on about the show they were watching, the same one that 2B just criticized.
She stares in half horror, the other half disgust.
"...Right."
Great, it's a nerd.
She doesn't say anything else, just looks away and back to the TV for a little more before tabbing out of Netflix.
"Rug's great. Love the rug." He breaks the silence again, and she almost jumps, forgot there was another person in the room.
She considers dying.
He keeps sitting on the rug, legs crossed now like he's at a sleepover.
"You have a toaster oven. That's cool," he rambles, out of nowhere, as he looks around.
She doesn't reply. Lights another cigarette in the middle of her living room.
Not near any window.
"Just don't shed on anything."
"Got it. Low-maintenance. I can be low-maintenance. Like a Roomba." He says, standing up, and brushing off his clothes as if he were getting ready to start a full day of chores, too much energy. Especially for this hour.
He keeps scanning the apartment like he's cataloging it, takes a few steps around the living room, pacing a little. "Okay, so—no chores. Chill vibe. Smokes inside. Love that." He spins around to face her and shoots some finger guns her way.
Another long silence.
She flicks ash into the empty cat bowl.
Still not telling him to leave.
The TV is still on, something is autoplaying. She's not watching.
Netflix's "Are you still watching?" Has been judging them for around another hour.
She doesn't care to answer it. Doesn't move much at all.
He looks sleepy, basically falling over and jolting awake every time his head falls, startling him.
She notices and slides off the couch, walks toward her room.
Stops in the doorway.
Turns her head over her shoulder.
"You snore?"
"I whimper sometimes."
"...Stay out here."
She disappears to her room for a moment, then comes back carrying an old pillow and a throw-away blanket, both look like they belong in the donation bin.
She tosses them on the couch. He looks at it, then back at her, "Do I sleep here?"
"It's a studio apartment," she replies, not even looking at him as she pulls her hoodie over her head and tosses it somewhere in the dark of her room.
"Oh," he says, avoiding looking at her shirtless, blinking. "Cool. Cool-cool-cool."
She doesn't respond.
He shifts awkwardly on the rug, now sitting with his knees up, hugging them like he's trying to take up less space than he already does.
Then, after a little bracing himself, finally gets up and sits on the couch, taking the pillow and tossing it to the opposite corner from him. He holds onto the blanket and looks behind him towards her, still standing in the doorway of her bedroom.
"...I used to have a weighted blanket. Not important. Just. Context."
She glares at him, but he doesn't see it in the dim light.
"Don't touch the bathroom switch, it shocks people."
He stares after her, like that might be a joke. It's not.
She flicks the lights off on her way to bed. Doesn't say goodnight. Leaves the door open a crack.
He rolls over, blanket pulled up to his chest.
Doesn't say anything.
The night goes on, and he's stiff, trying not to move too much.
She snores.
Loudly.
She also sets alarms and doesn't turn them off. A dozen of them.
All going off within five minutes of each other, he wonders if she's awake.
Way too long goes by until 2B gets up, pulls a shirt over her head, and walks into the main room barefoot.
Doesn't care to check if he's awake, walks straight to the fridge
"Can I—uh—can I use your bathroom?" he blurts, not knowing if she even remembers telling him about the light switch.
She turns her head from the fridge to where the sound came from, seemingly still asleep, bed hair and all, her expression makes it seem like she was surprised to be hearing anything at all.
She stares momentarily, thinking he's an idiot for having to ask.
Then turns her attention back to the empty fridge.
"Don't touch the switch."
That means yes. Or at least he hopes so.
He vanishes into the bathroom and doesn't get electrocuted.
When he returns, she's sitting at the table, drinking something straight from the carton. Milk, maybe.
Milk's gone bad. She's still drinking.
Something about worse things being inside of her before.
Not in that way.
You pervert.
He clears his throat, looking away from that... whole shebang.
"I have to go. Just for a bit,"
He looks at her again, seeking permission. "I have work. I can come back right after," He blurts out, explaining himself.
She lifts her gaze from her phone, her eyes going from his face to the rest of him.
"You go out like that?" She doesn't sound judgmental or curious. She sounds like nothing at all.
"Oh. " He can't even bring himself to feel ashamed for that. "Yeah, I do."
He stares, waiting for her to continue, but she never does.
"Alright..." He looks around a bit, pats his legs, stares again.
"I'll just— go then," Another long pause, he turns to the door, "Just a few hours. I'll be back. Promise." He grabs his backpack off the floor, takes a deep breath.
He walks to the door. Pauses.
"Heading out now," He looks back to where she is, "Leaving..." The word goes on for longer than it should have.
She looks up at him, standing by the door, not trying to reach for the handle.
Notices he's probably expecting her to say something.
"Yeah. I'll just hang here."
Silence again.
"...From the ceiling." She raises her hands in slow, half-assed finger guns, imitating the one from yesterday.
He doesn't laugh.
"...Cool," he says quietly, and watches for another while too long.
Then turns the handle and steps outside.
Stands there for a second.
Then opens the door and walks back inside.
"You're... not really gonna—" He has to ask.
"—Huh?" He can't be serious. She reassures him anyway, "No... Probably not"
He leaves again, for real this time.
She stays home, not employed, doing the usual.
Very intense staring contest with the random stains on her wall.
They always win, but she's persistent.
Average everyday busy people stuff.
By eight something AM, he's arriving at work, early as always.
There, he carries himself to his designated spot and listens to his boss, passive-aggressively telling him to "get to working".
Even though he's nearly an hour away from his actual shift starting.
He starts work anyway.
Then spends the day stressed out and overworked, which is very dog-boy of him to do, sticking around a crap job with an asshole boss, for loyalty's sake.
Some more experience on the resume.
Back at home, she reads an article about a fly-swatting contest.
At work, he considers the suicidal joke she made this morning, it's distracting him.
And for the first time in months, he leaves once his shift is over, doesn't stay overtime, doesn't let his coworkers pile up more stuff for him to do, rushes right out of the office.
He needs to get some of his stuff that's still at his old place.
For that, he needs a car, which he doesn't have.
She does, and when he's about to come in asking for a favor, she somehow beats him to it.
Door swings open before his hand can find the doorknob.
They stare at one another. He looks tired, she steps out of the way.
He doesn't walk inside, so she walks outside instead.
Pulling out a cigarette as soon as the door closes behind her
"Okay, you're coming with." She shrugs, walking down the stairs. Not expecting an answer.
"Where?" He asks curiously, catching right up to her.
His tone quite upbeat for someone who just came out of a cubicle office job hell.
"Don't know yet." Sounds genuine, and as he clips the seatbelt in the passenger side, it seems like the perfect opportunity to ask
"If you're not busy—" he starts, sounds nervous, corrects himself, "—I mean, if it's not trouble. Could we... go get the rest of my stuff?"
She turns the car on. The engine complains about being kept alive.
"Sure." She glances at him, throwing the half-smoked cigarette out of the car window, waiting for directions or an address.
"Oh! Okay, perfect, thanks!" He's grateful, quickly unlocks his phone, tells her the address, and even opens the GPS if she needs it.
"...Boujee part of town." 2B mumbles to herself as she backs the car up.
That's the first time he's heard some emotion in her tone, but isn't sure what to make of it.
She doesn't need directions, knows just how to get there, quite familiar with this city.
May not seem like it, but she's a good driver, pays attention, is patient, drives safe.
Doesn't notice anything but the road, it's all autopilot.
He is enjoying the ride; their silence looks awkward, but it doesn't feel that way—at least not to him.
Now he's wondering if she finds it awkward, he's nervous now.
She doesn't. Is staring at a red light, wishing harm upon it.
To her, the red lights in this part of town have a personal vendetta against shitty-looking cars.
Once they're there, she parks in front of a big house, in a neighborhood where all the houses look the same.
He gives her no time to wonder if the address is right, already out of the car.
"I'll be quick, you can wait here if you prefer." He doesn't want to trouble her any further, but she walks out as well.
"I'll help you out." She slams the door and locks her car, leaning against it, arms crossed, waiting for him to figure it out.
He ponders if he would need any extra help, but is too polite to explain he won't.
He leads towards the house, she goes along, trying not to look around too much, the fake grass gives her the heebie jeebies.
The house has one of those fancy door-knocking things you see in gothic vampire places.
She finds it hilarious, especially when he doesn't use it to knock, or how he avoids the doorbell.
He stares up at the door expectantly and perks up once it opens.
Just to be quickly disappointed, the person who opened said door wasn't the woman from the parking lot, but a man.
Neither seems very happy with the other.
"Uh. Babe?" The guy calls for someone inside the house, "Your—" he pauses, looks them up and down, "—dog... is here."
"Puppy?!" a feminine voice calls out with gleaming enthusiasm, followed by footsteps and, soon enough, a familiar face at the door.
The man was pushed aside, and looks displeased, even more so when she greets them with a hug and a head pat, or at leas, tries to, 2B didn't get close enough to allow her head to be touched.
She urges them inside, while explaining that she's already packed most of the stuff, and insists on helping them out.
"Puppy" tries arguing that it's okay and she doesn't have to, but she's quite stubborn.
She makes them sit down in a fancy living room, one with a fireplace, two couches in each corner, and a table in its center.
2B sits uncomfortably—she looks awkward for the first time.
She's wondering why someone would need more than one couch.
And despite "puppy" saying they're in a bit of a hurry, as politely as he tried to deny her kind offers, both still end up showered with pastries and luxuries, a beautiful teacup set shared between them, different species of bird in each cup and plate.
Their welcoming host leaves for a moment, leaving the two with plenty of food, freshly brewed tea, and finally some room to breathe.
While 2B is eating every macaron in sight, he is holding onto a cup of tea.
"Sorry it's taking so long," he sighs.
"No prob," she says, shoveling another one of the expensive sweets into her mouth.
Nothing wrong with being at a rich girl's house, and being served by the same.
"This is awesome," she adds, leaning over to grab more of the sweets that were on his side of the table.
"She's a good person, really... she's just a little pushy—you know?" 2B's comment hasn't registered; he's unaware that 2B is actually enjoying herself and staring at him now. He doesn't have the habit of maintaining eye contact when he speaks, so he won't notice.
"Always trying to do everything for you, it feels a bit degrading." He goes on, "I mean—it's not a bad thing to be kind, maybe I'm being inconsiderate, how would she know what I want if I don't tell her, right?" Suddenly, he stops to take a sip of the tea and notices it's gone cold.
Realizes he's been rambling again.
But before he can stutter an apology or ask her to forget all about it
"You're a grown man, not right to treat you like a child," she agrees, pointing a macaron affirmingly at him, studies him for a moment—his whole dog situation—and adds
"Unless.. that's what you want." A bit unsure, she rests her back against the couch with a shrug,
"Don't know what you two had going on."
"Oh! Nothing—" he almost talks over her, then tries again, still stuttering "—nothing like that, she's just... we're just, we were not."
So he puts the teacup down and fixes his seat.
"It's not romantic, if that's what you thought."
She blinks, still staring, waiting for something more
"Or in that way!" he adds, a bit flustered, understanding the implications of her glare.
"Right," she nods, looking away from him, "that makes sense." It doesn't, this doesn't make sense to her at all, but she got macarons out of it, so it's fine.
He seems embarrassed.
She's grabbing another sweet already.
"Well, I will—I'll go get my stuff." he stands up, gesturing to somewhere inside the house.
She doesn't follow, preferring to stick by the food.
Which he expected her to, because it takes a moment for him to finally walk off.
The food ends quicker than she had hoped, so she looks around at the meaningless decor, struggling to decipher most of the art around her.
It gets boring fast, enough to make her stand up, retrace her steps to the front door, walk outside, sit down on the white wooden stairs of their porch, and light a cigarette.
Inside the house, he's zipping up a suitcase with the rest of his clothes rather hastily.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with? If it's because of the hangout, we can travel back here for the event! It's just a three-hour drive," she insists, sitting on his old bed.
"No, I told you, I have a job over here, can't just quit..." he tries to explain himself, again.
"But you can! I won't ask you for rent, you don't have to work, we could—"
"—I love the new place," he cuts her off.
"I'm... glad to hear that," she tries her best not to sound disappointed, and he tries his best not to sound frustrated, looking away from her, afraid that might have come off as rude.
"Anywho, offer is always up, if you... change your mind," she's curling a lock of her hair with her fingers, he feels super bad about all of this.
"Thank you, I'll visit—I think." He tried to offer a hand, it was way too formal, especially between them, it wasn't a formal relationship. He cringed at it.
But she takes it in a firm handshake, deciding then that what he said was a promise.
"I'll be waiting for you!" It's a warm smile, but it's misguided.
He pulls his hand away before she can let go, chooses not to say anything else.
Then struggles down the stairs.
Waddling almost, the suitcase dragging on each step as he went down.
As soon as he steps outside, there's a familiar smell, tobacco.
With it, there's 2B, lying down on the porch of this fancy house, in only her sports bra.
She's taking the whole stairs.
The weather isn't warm enough to justify her style, but no weather tends to justify dressing up as a dog either, so he's in no place to judge.
She looks up at him, and he's looking right back down at her.
Reluctantly, with a sigh, she sits up, patting her pockets for her car keys.
"That's all?" she jumps up, turning her car on.
"No, there's a bit more," he watches from the doorway as she has to pry the trunk open.
And as he's throwing the suitcase inside the trunk, the man from earlier comes carrying a few boxes, along with their host, a pretty glass in her hand, ordering him to carry some more stuff outside. He's just trying to get it over with.
2B watched as the dog-eared, tail-wearing dude carried two boxes back to her car.
The first one seemed easy enough, but she couldn't help but notice how he was pulling its weight with his back, like an idiot, clearly not having a good time, and taking way too long down the few steps, longer than she cared to watch more than once.
"I'll get the rest." 2B swings the backseat door open, he hesitates, and she gestures with her head for him to get in.
"In it," she doesn't mean it as a command, just restating it, as if he didn't understand her the first time.
So he yields, crawling in the backseat, holding his tail to the side and out of the way, trying not to sit on top of it.
There are only a few boxes left, and she makes quick work of them.
Most had books, and were decently heavy, but she worked out, or used to.
She slams the trunk lid shut and walks up to the driver's seat. The host rushes outside to wave them goodbye, and 2B notes the way he waves back is considerably timid.
He expected this drive back home to be as awkward as the way here, both quiet the entire time, no radio, especially now that he's sitting in the backseat instead of next to her.
"She has no boundaries at all. Don't feel bad for walking away." Until 2B herself breaks the silence.
He nods in awe, due to his broken expectations, but mostly because that is exactly what he needed to hear right now.
"My mom was like that too, can't say no to her." To shock him further, she continues. "Dad was a pushover, that's why they worked," She almost laughs.
It feels inappropriate to speak; he believed any interruption would stop her speaking forever, that he would lose this rare chance of connection. So he let her.
"I'd rather work at the mall again before I have to go back there," She drives with one hand only, something he finds terrifying.
He never got his license because he couldn't stop stressing behind the wheel... or in the backseat. He can't stop stressing, period.
She kept talking for a bit, and when he realized he forgot to listen, it was too late. She's quiet again, and her free hand, usually on a cigarette, is turning the radio back up, filling the silence.
"I have a job interview tomorrow," She speaks up, despite the music.
He wants to wish her good luck, but she interrupts him.
"You'll know if I got the job if I'm drunk." She parks with such precision that it feels rehearsed. "'Cause then I get to spend money..." Pulls the keys out and swings the door open.
He follows her out and watches her pry the trunk open like it's a dog holding onto something it shouldn't have. Despite it being beaten down and dysfunctional, she gives it a small pat, as if it was living, puppy.
"Look, I have to go birth a shit baby, so you got the bags yourself, yeah?" Running up the stairs of her side-hotel-looking apartment complex. "You got this, I believe in you." She leaves him with only a thumbs-up; even her encouragement had a mellow tone.
9s pulls one of the bags out, almost letting it fall on his toes, in a haze.
Looking like someone who just watched a cat talk, naturally, even.
With much struggle, he carries the last of his baggage up the stairs and inside the living room, where he then carefully stacks it in a corner, out of view.
And as she walks out of the bathroom, somehow in less clothing than before, she starts taking his stuff to her room. Together, they find space for his things and inevitably clean out the space.
He takes trash out, and she wipes it clean; he does the dishes, she watches, truly a symbiotic relationship going on.
In less time than she believed, her apartment was clean for once.
She kind of misses the stain on the wall.
That night, as she's watching TV—a reality TV show about weddings, that is basically just male incompetence. The incompetent male cooked them dinner.
Ceremoniously, looking proud of himself, in his little apron, he brings her a plate of his homemade pasta and places it on the table the same way she had given him his burger.
She says nothing at all when she eats.
Soon, he'll learn this means she liked it, for now, he can feel anxious.
And she adds an extra pillow to her bed, one she would later steal for herself, and he would sleep next to her anyway, even with no pillow.
The next day, they both leave the house early, one for work, the other in hope of work.
And that night, he comes home to her drunk. Heats the pasta leftovers, notices the sticker where the stain used to be, and sits next to her on the couch
And they get her life, together.