When No One Is Watching(8)
I’ve made up countless backstories for her. She’s taking online classes, since she’s often tapping away studiously at her laptop, and once she graduates she’ll find a job that makes her happy, if such a thing exists. She’s a dedicated gardener because she’s the kind of person who loves making things grow—a nurturer.
I make up things about the future, too, like what might happen if I ring her bell the next time she starts to twerk—or to cry. Concocting a fantasy where I save a beautiful damsel in distress, or have sex with her, is way more satisfying than dealing with reality.
Outside the window, three neighborhood kids speed past on their bikes and she calls out greetings to them, followed by a warning to watch out for cars in the intersection as they continue on.
Terry, the shithead who lives next door to the Interrupter, walks out of his house with his shithead dog. It bounds down the stairs while barking at the kids on bikes and gets caught short by its leash because the Interrupter is bending over to pick something up and Terry’s busy ogling her ass.
The hammering restarts in earnest downstairs.
Sweat beads on my temples, my chest, my back, and when it rolls into my ass crack, I sigh deeply and peel my arm from the chipped paint of the window frame. I’m pretty sure whoever owned this house in the past cooked meals up here in the summer because this apartment also functions as an oven.
And you’re the turkey that voluntarily stepped into it.
I leave the apartment with a change of clothes and three-in-one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner rolled up in a towel, then trudge through the wallpaper-stripped hallways and down two flights of yet-to-be-varnished hardwood stairs.
My shower hasn’t worked for weeks. My first Brooklyn summer has mostly been spent sweltering in this attic apartment, marinating in beer fumes and hangover funk until I’m grody enough to slink downstairs for a shower.
I could try repairing it, for the tenth time, but somehow each time I do, a new problem appears. I was the man of the house growing up, in between Mom’s boyfriends, and I’ve worked construction jobs between more lucrative gigs. And yet . . .
“Must be gremlins,” Kim had shouted over her shoulder a week ago as she took a power sander to a brand-new table to make it look old. “Or maybe you’re actually fucking things up when you think you’re fixing them?”
Story of my life.
The path to the bathroom on the main floor is clear since Kim is currently busy with her demented hammering, so I slide into the shower and wash quickly, efficiently, like I’m in a prison shower and can’t drop my guard.
Afterward, no longer smelling like stale IPA and flop sweat, I steel myself and walk into the kitchen.
Half the cabinet doors are off their hinges and a thin layer of sawdust covers the floor and the other flat surfaces. Kim is wearing a ratty but expensive tank top and yoga pants with cat paws all over them, even though she thinks cats are parasites; her hair is up in a messy bun on top of her head, and her expression is solemn and focused. For a second, it feels like a year ago, before things had gone bad, when I found her “concentration” face so damn sexy she had to shut the door on me while scrolling through real estate listings.
A lot can change in a year. Not the door shutting in my face, though now it’s more like three doors and two stories.
She has her iPad holder with the extensible neck clamped to the counter, and she’s squinting at the screen, scrubbing her finger up and up and up over the smooth glass, leaving trails in the sawdust.
I can guess what she’s looking at. Two apps were clocking the most usage on her devices last time I was privy to that info: OurHood, a kind of virtual neighborhood watch that’s fascinating in its ability to turn any activity into something sinister, and Boomtown, the home renovation and decoration app for people like us—or like her, rather. Wealthy millennials who buy and DIY for fun and profit because they plan to sell the houses they buy on the cheap in “emerging communities.”
When we’d scored an advanced viewing for this place, I told her I liked the vintage feel of the kitchen, with its dark wood cabinets and stained-glass windows. Apparently, what I thought was cool, she considered gauche.
This is the third time she’s repainted the cabinets, the last attempt a hideous peach color buffed with rose gold. Half the house is in various stages of “work in process,” and I’m no longer consulted on projects.
Her interest in me dropped drastically over the course of the home-buying process, though she kept insisting things were fine. Me losing my job shortly after the move was the cherry on the shit cake that’s our relationship now. That she doesn’t know the real reason for my unemployment? I guess that’s the decorative icing; it spells out At least you tried.
I should be glad things didn’t turn out worse than my relationship foundering on the rocks, but I’ve never been one to focus on the brighter side.
“Good morning.” I try to sound pleasant, not like someone who’s considered gathering up all her expensive gold jewelry and touring pawnshops in the tri-state area.
We’re linked by the house, after all; separating would be a clusterfuck. I’d lose thousands of dollars and have to scramble to figure out where to go and what to do. Plus, we did care for each other once, not even that long ago.
When Kim doesn’t respond to my greeting I say, “Wow. HGTV city in here, huh?”