Fight

“I could’ve made sauce.”

“We don’t have any tomatoes, canned or otherwise, and you used the last of the pesto last week.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

She sits next to him and grabs her plate. He watches, slightly amused, as she dumps half of the container of cheese onto the noodles. It’s better with sauce, but alas.

They sit for a moment in silence, except for the horrible buzz of the TV in the background, and she wonders when words got so hard to say.

“So.”

“So.”

“I read the thing you told me to read.”

“Yeah? What’d you think?”

“It was pretty good. The one character sucked though.”

She chewed her pasta thoughtfully. “Well he was going through a lot of stuff.”

“Doesn’t give anyone an excuse to be an asshole.”

“True. True.”

The silence would be awkward if it weren't so well known. They sit and they eat and the television plays the same episodes, over and over and over. Then the pasta is gone, and she knows she has to ask. Still she hesitates over yet another thought.

“I know a good therapist, if you wanna give that a shot.”

He looks up abruptly and his eyebrows furrow all the way up in concern.

“It’s not horribly expensive, and insurance would cover most of it.”

She has his attention, that’s for sure. She has his attention, yet she can’t even look at his face. He continues to stare, and his left eye twitches at alarming speeds.

“I’ve been going for about a year now. It’s not perfect, but it helps.”

“What did you find?” he blurts out.

“I’ve taken the liberty of booking you an appointment next week, on Wednesday after your last class. You’re going, even if I have to drag you.” “What. Did. You. Find?”

Finally she dares to look at him. His hands clench around the table and under it, his knee bounces into the cheap crooked plastic. She draws in a breath. “Your note. Clearly you didn’t go through but, well, you still have it. I can’t imagine that’s a mistake.”

He curses, once, twice, several more times, and brings his hands to wrap around his head and clench at his hair. On the stove, the pot of water cools down. She should put it in the dishwasher, before she forgets.

“That was just one bad day,” he says, gritted teeth muting the protest.

“I know what bad days are. It’s never just one.”

“Why do I live with you? Remind me?”

“You didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

He waits. His hands clench a little less awfully, but they still linger in his hair as he stares at the table.

“But we’re friends now, I think, whether you like it or not. Definitely not normal friends, but something along those lines. I’d hate to have to go roommate searching all over again.”

He laughs, but it holds something strangled inside. “Oh heaven forbid you having to try to replace me.”

She would chuckle, but she knows what he needs to hear. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t comply.

“Look at me.”

He finally lifts his head, and she can see the way his eyes puff up and his nose twitches, once, twice.

“As much as I joke about it, I do care about you. If you’ve got nothing else holding you back, let me do it.”

He still doesn’t cry. She knows he won’t. He should, but he’s been told not to by the ghost of society, and so he doesn’t cry. She reaches forward, around the table, and almost hugs him. They sit in the kitchen for a while, sit in the almost hug, and watch the world outside the apartment get darker. The pot on the stove cools, and she forgets about it, pasta leaving her mind. A dog barks on the street, and something heavy sounding falls over in the upstairs neighbor’s apartment. The lights flutter and the world goes on.

She goes upstairs later, to take a shower, and realizes he’s cleaned the toilet.