The Cohabitants 11

The next weekend for their third meeting, he arrived at her studio apartment carrying a fishing rod, a cooler of sugar-free Gatorade, and a gift of frozen bear sausage of undetermined age. Their hug was a narcotic rush and for a few hours they rolled around on her bed on a surreal voyage in a small ship. Her bed was small, too small. A few months earlier she had purchased a full-size mattress instead of a queen-size. She thought she didn’t need a queen bed because she had planned to sleep with her dog for the rest of her life. Didn’t need to allow room for another person because there was never going to be another person. Purchasing a bed that was too small for two people felt liberating. Peak self-acceptance. 

Now, the man was so big that after he fell asleep, she took a pillow and slept on the rug. When he woke, as he moved around the room, her chairs were too small to be comfortable for him. He had to squeeze into the seat and fold his knees. Her desk was her dinner table. She didn’t have a couch. There was no place for him to stretch out and relax. He was a bear in a bird cage. After two days together in the city, it was obvious that her place was not going to be their place. 

They did not go to dinner at a swank restaurant. She took him to her neighborhood pub for a deluxe hotdog. They did not browse the shops or go to an art gallery or a museum or read books together or go to a movie. They walked the dog through parks holding hands and sat on benches by the river and talked and kissed. He spent a couple hours on the wharf with his fishing line in the water, but mostly he was just chatting with the other fishermen. By the time he left, she could tell he was ready to go home, like a wild animal escaping a zoo.

In the middle of August, she was back on the hill with Moon for the second time. The dog was off and running into the woods, thrilled to be hunting again, while the inside of the house appeared just as revolting as she remembered it. The man had apparently not cleaned or prepared for her in any way, a fact that took a thunderstorm of acceptance. 

Cleaning was more than an obligation; it was a tradition. For six decades she had been a houseguest in the family homes of her grandparents, her aunts, her girlfriends, and for thirty years, her in-laws. She had been trained since she could change a pillowcase to make a welcoming place for guests, and to be a conscientious guest in the homes of others. On her farm, she had been an Airbnb host. Making beds, putting out fresh towels, preparing food, cleaning the corners, dusting the furniture, wiping down the kitchen, getting out the good dishes, fluffing the throw pillows on the couch, these were the things she did. Cleaning was self-expression.

The women in her family taught her to be a hostess. Between meals their men watched football and went in the basement to play pool and smoke and tell racist jokes, mother-in-law jokes, religion jokes. Three men walk into a bar… They stunk up the bathroom with their meaty farts. Her uncle’s ileostomy bag broke on Thanksgiving after he drank too much beer. His pants were soaked and his wife was furious, but no matter. The women mobilized like a team of first responders to fetch him a robe, get his clothes off and into the washing machine, clean his shoes, get the pungent liquid soaked up out of the rug, sprinkle baking soda on the stain, and make another pot of coffee. This is just what women did. In some places, it is what they still do. Meanwhile, the wife jokes.

On the hill, she could see the fruit of the man’s labors in the beautifully maintained property. His hot tub was pristine. The birdfeeders were full. His beard was perfectly trimmed and his truck was orderly. And yet everything in the house looked dirty. The dead bugs on the windowsills were right where they had been on her first visit. She took it upon herself to wad up toilet paper and flush the tiny corpses so she wouldn’t have to look at them. The kitchen table was still piled high with jumbo bags of bird seed beside two placemats, which now struck her as a conspicuous clue to his past. 

Regardless, she didn’t allow his mess to throw her off track. She was on a mission. For this visit, she brought her own cleaning supplies, bed sheets and food.

“I can’t eat the way you eat,” she said bluntly, waiting for resistance. 

“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.” He was cheerful. “It’s your kitchen.”

What a sweet man. He was opening up his life to her. He wanted her to be at home. However, her inner voice was skeptical.

Of course, he wants you here. You brought dinner and clean sheets. 

She let his oven preheat for an hour just to be sure anything alive in there was dead before she roasted a chicken. Then she cleaned the kitchen counters and began to trim fresh green beans. In what she thought was a spontaneous gesture, he came up behind her and kissed her on the cheek.

“It’s so good to have a woman in the kitchen again,” he whispered and licked her ear.

Mentally knifed, her head split open in a mood swing that reverberated like a gong. He didn’t notice. He was back out on the deck singing, serenading her with seventies pop songs while she choked on a feminist tantrum. Her nicest thoughts about him were extinguished; her inner voices raged. She was fooling herself about the possibilities for a future with this man. 

He said, “Good to have.” That’s a compliment.

Or maybe it’s just how low his lifestyle has plunged without a resident vagina. 

He’s appreciating you.

Like lemon scented furniture polish.

He loves your cooking.

No. He loves a woman in the kitchen. 

He means he loves women.

Like the prize in a Cracker Jack box. 

You should have asked about the placemats.

Talking about other women is a buzz kill.

You’re a coward.

He’s being sweet.

All men are sweet when they want something. He said “again.”

Maybe he was talking about his mom.

“Again.” 

Okay, maybe he was talking about his wife.

Meaning more than once. A succession. A replacement. Just like his fucking dogs. 

But he kissed me.

He’s manipulating you.

She stood at the sink with her hands on vegetables while her whole body vibrated hostility. It had been two months since she quit drinking, but the craving was still spiraling inside her. Her brain was shorting out, going dark. This relationship wasn’t going to work. She didn’t know how to explain to him why that remark was so offensive without being offensive herself. Obviously for him feminism was a foreign language.