Just Like Them
Greg and Julie’s ironing board with the purple flowery pattern, two of their set of four coordinated Ikea lamps, their plastic white drip coffee maker, their cold air humidifier, their clothes drying rack, two full black trash bags, his bike, and their four dark wooden, foldable tray tables were sitting outside by the curb like garbage.
Greg, just arriving home late from work, lit up. Something was wrong. Fireworks of adrenaline and testosterone exploded underneath his skin. He grimaced. His toes curled in his shoes. His fingers shook as they struggled to fit the key in the front door just right so it would turn—“Fucking thing, turn!” he yelled. And the door opened up. His feet were numb. He barreled up to the third floor two steps at a time. His quads burned. His lips pursed.
The climb gave him just enough time to think. When he got to the door he would rush in to the apartment. He would be prepared for anything. Prepared for, prepared for, prepared for what? He didn’t know what. Why would his stuff be on the curb? Was she breaking up with him? But some of the stuff wasn’t just his. It was theirs. Was she moving? Is a robber in there? But wouldn’t a robber immediately put the stuff in a car or in a bag or away somewhere?
Once on the landing in front of the door, he turned the knob and threw himself in the room with such force it was as though he had just broken the door down with his shoulder. He stood in the main room and refueled with a deep inhale as he surveyed the situation—the room, which accounted for most of the apartment, seemed half empty.
The couch, coffee table and TV, Wii, Xbox 360, and Blu-Ray player were still there. The TV was on. They hadn’t been robbed. The tchotchkes and New Yorker magazines from the coffee table were gone. About half of the books on the bookshelf were missing. But this simply made it look like an orderly bookshelf. The closet, tall, narrow and the only one in the apartment, in which they kept their work clothes, coats, personal finance files and sheets, was open. Like the bookshelf, it was orderly, clean and half-empty. The throw over the couch was gone. All of their DVDs were gone. Greg noticed Marshmallow, their Shih-Tzu, yelping at his feet just like normal. “Julie?”
In between barks he heard their shower curtain pull open. He put his keys down on the end table, where their sunglasses used to be, and took the three steps to the bathroom.
“Hon?” The door was partly open. His adrenaline ebbed and flowed unsure of what he might find. He peaked around it slowly.
And then he saw her. Julie, his wife to-be, was sitting on the edge of the tub holding a half-used bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo plus conditioner. Hair was falling out of her ponytail and around her face. The soft skin around her eyes was swollen. She roughly wiped her nose on a bath towel.
“Is it worth keeping this? I used to bring this with me to the gym. But I don’t go there so much anymore now that it’s nice outside. So I don’t really use it. But I don’t want to waste it. I think I’m emotionally attached to it. I don’t know what to do.” And then she erupted into tears ready to share the burden she had been facing all by herself. “Thank god you’re here.”
She was safe. Marshmallow was unconcerned. A shampoo bottle?
“Woah. Woah, woah, woah, woah. What the fuck is going on here?” The scene outside on the curb seemed so extreme, so dire, so acute. A shampoo bottle?
“Greg, I’m nipping it in the bud.” she said cryptically.
Unsure what she meant or how she would interpret anything he said, Greg decided to get more data. “Nipping what in the bud?”
“I’m nipping it in the bud, Greg. Nipping it in the bud.” She answered.
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January 7th, 2010 at 10:58 am
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