Flowers and Stasis

He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. In fact, nothing that any landlady could do held any terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, all the while racking his brains for excuses, avoiding the issue, lying--no, he would rather creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

Tian's boyfriend asked us to take peppermint patty shots. We were instructed to tilt our heads back and open our mouths. This is patently absurd. Only in a fraternity house would one ever begin to consider tilting their head back and opening their mouth for someone with liquor, and I wouldn't ever consider setting foot in a fraternity house. The push and pull of the convincing wasn't as charming as one might hope; refusal turned into coy reticence, and by then the charade was boring and the outcome seemed inevitable. The shot ended up tasting like a peppermint patty.

Ameena had some friends over for her birthday. Zach, her ex-boyfriend/current study buddy, asked us to take cement mixer shots. There was only enough lime juice for one of us. The bailey's curdled in my mouth and everyone watched me expectantly. "Well, that was gross." It was awkward. Maybe I was supposed to laugh or perform alarm and disgust. I just felt tangentially humiliated and a little sick. I went to my bed and listened as the ping pong balls bounced on the floor above me.

Zach has since moved in. He's straight; he uses axe-brand hair product, he thinks the US military is just-so-great, and I can hear him fucking his new girlfriend every night. After the sex, one of them takes a shower. In the morning I discover: that shower was a very cold one.

He told me I was "an ass". I talked down to him, there are nicer ways to disagree with someone he wanted me to know. Then there was a knock at the door.



And now it's like Ohio. I can hear him (and Katie) on the stairs and it sounds like shackles. The weight of them in the kitchen above me is suffocating. With simple hate I listen as they watch their movie with the volume a little too loud.



I love this house. The flowers, the garden, the sewing room are charming. My room is perfect. Kristin brings home cake and we watch cartoons and musicals.

I don't know that living here is sustainable. It's only mostly a respite from anxiety, the utilities get too high in the winter, and the kitchen's almost always a little dirty.

But I don't know that I have other options. I don't know that I can afford a one-bedroom. I am not really one to make friends. And even if I moved into a room, there'd probably be a Zach anywhere I went, but the chances of finding another Kristin seem low.