The Cohabitants 16

His affection fed her spirit, but after several days of wildfire stress, pandemic stress, new habitat stress, new boyfriend stress, and quitting alcohol stress, the woman began to spiral. She had arrived for the weekend, and now she was stuck here, wearing his t-shirts and playing house while she waited to return to Portland. The man however was handling it. Jolly as old St. Nick in his smokey garage, he played with his toys, singing Beach Boys songs and tying fancy knots in fishing line.

During the night the power company shut down electricity to prevent new fires and their cabin on the hill went dark. So, first thing, they needed to manually unlock the electric security gate across the driveway. When he told her she had to learn how to do that, she had a sudden rush of imposter syndrome. She wasn’t that smart. This business of electricity made her nervous. Standing in the gaping maw of the garage door, she watched him snatch tools and an oily rag. He was speaking to her about the process as though she were competent and knowledgeable, and that was so cool, but her thoughts were spaghetti. 

He handed her the allen wrench that would open a control box to access the gate power switch and release the hydraulic hinges. This one little tool was the key to the whole process, a tiny metal stick like a broken pencil. She knew what it was. She had a whole set of them in her own tool kit back in her apartment in Portland. Clutching the wrench, she followed him down the driveway to the gate, and stood like a surgeon’s assistant waiting for his command.

When he finished and pushed the huge iron gate doors open, he said, “If you’re not strong enough to do this, push it with the front bumper of your car.” 

As he wiped his hands on the oily rag, she tried to imagine a world where she was in such a hurry to go somewhere that she would use her car to crash through a gate. They hadn’t even had their morning coffee. She could cook and make coffee on the gas grill, but first he would have to refill the propane tank. Then they realized without electricity they couldn’t grind their coffee beans anyway. So, he was driving into town to see where the electricity was working and get them some breakfast. An hour later, he came home with fried chicken on a stick, which she recognized as mini mart fare. 

Are you fucking kidding me?

It’s food. Eat it.

That lump of ultra processed crap will never pass my lips.

Obviously hungry, he pulled a new bottle of ranch dressing out of the fridge to use as a dipping sauce while she stared at her chicken stick and all her fears congealed in the shape of an ambulance.  

“I’m not going to push your wheelchair when they chop your legs off.” The words came out of her mouth ugly.

Nice talk.

He’s killing himself.

He’s taking care of you.

I can’t eat this.

You’re an ass.

The man focused on a distant speck and continued to eat his breakfast. Minutes passed. She ate nothing. He pinched the last bite of breaded meat to scoop up the last glob of ranch dressing and chewed it with relish. Then he stood to put his dirty dishes in the sink and said, “The mini mart was the only place I could find with electricity. They have a generator. But their cook had to stay home with her kids.”

Biff! Pow! Her ego was roadkill. Still, when he left for work, he kissed her goodbye like she was the perfect Disney princess.

Your mouth is too fast.

His eating habits are insane.

Give him a break.

He’s annihilating his gut bacteria.

So feed him sauerkraut.

I don’t want to be a widow again.

You’re overreacting. 

He’s killing himself.

He gets out of bed singing.

That night after dinner, when they went for their evening walk around the property, she was melancholy. “I apologize if some of the things I say are extreme. The words just come out of my mouth.”

He put his arm around her, kissed her forehead, and they shared a long hug. “I like that it’s not a game with you,” he said. “I don’t have to guess what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t play games.” She smirked at him. “If you cripple yourself with food, I’m not going to hang around to push your wheelchair.”

Ha! He laughed so loud the dog jumped. 

You don’t deserve him.

Yes, I do.