Detachment

         He’s in the other room playing guitar and singing to himself. He got out of the shower a few moments ago and briefly acknowledged my presence before moving into the other room. He thinks I am annoyed with him, and is staying away so that I don’t have to deal with him. He doesn’t realize that this is exactly what is bothering me.

         He’ll be going to class in a half hour, and I’ll get to spend the following six hours alone in the apartment. His roommates will meander in and out. They will make the clean dishes dirty and leave them in places where they don’t belong, like on top of the refrigerator or beside the couch. I will wait until they leave, and then I will collect all of these items and wash them—not because I want to be nice, but because the mess bothers me so much. I will think about doing homework and I will wish I could leave the apartment and go elsewhere, but I will be stuck here, because if I leave, the door will lock behind me.

         I’m lonely in his room. I am gazing at an indecipherable location in the air and listening to the song lyrics which he is making up as he goes. I’m finding it hard to focus on entire sentences, and instead just catch an occasional phrase. He’s singing a lot about how he hates it here, but I know that it’s mostly because he’s stressed out about things right now.

         He eventually comes into the room and sits on the opposite end of the bed. He looks at me, raising his eyebrows, then turns to stare blankly at the wall. I watch him for a few minutes, my eyes welling up with tears for no reason except that I am frustrated. He glances over at me, pausing to study the expression on my face. I look away, pretending to be interested in something in the corner of the bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell by his face that he is blaming himself. I wonder if this is a fair assumption.

          He moves closer and looks at me sympathetically. He reaches for me, and I lean forward and rest my head on his shoulder.

          “What’s wrong?” he asks me. “Tell me what’s wrong.” I shake my head.

          “Nothing,” I respond. “I’m fine.”

         He sighs, discouraged already. Though he realizes that it’s unlikely he’ll be able to get a straight answer, he tries again, pushing me gently away from his shoulder so he can look at me.

         “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying?”

         I shake my head again, leaning forward to hide my face in his shoulder again. “Nothing. I don’t know. I’m fine.”

         He tries to pull me back again, but I quickly resist and continue to bury my face  in his t-shirt. I hear him exhale loudly.

         “I have to go,” he says, moving away from me and standing up. I quickly wipe tears from my face and watch him gather his things for class—an unzipped green backpack full of supplies, a piece of heavy paper with a glass of water painted on it, a sweater. I stride across the room in a matter-of-fact manner and get a tissue from the desk.

         “Your wallet’s on the table in the other room,” I remind him. He nods, putting his cell phone in his pocket.

         “You can call me if you need to,” he says. I shrug.
         “Yeah, okay,” I respond casually. I have slipped into a mode that we are both very familiar with, during which I pretend that nothing has happened and nothing is wrong. I am detaching myself from the situation. He hates it. He’s usually all about discussing feelings. I return to my seat on the bed, giving him an expression of nonchalance.

          “What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” he asks me. “I guess we could go to Myerhoff.”
          “It’ll probably be closed by the time you get back,” I respond, thwarting his
efforts at resolving things, just to be difficult.
          “Yeah,” he says, and his tone makes me think he’s giving up. “I guess you should probably just eat here. I’ll go get something during a class break.”
         “That’s fine,” I agree. He adjusts his backpack and looks at me for a moment.
         “So, I’ll see you later.” He leans in and kisses me quickly.
         “Yep,” I answer. “See you.”
         He moves toward the door, then looks back at me.
         “Are you sure you’re okay to stay here?” As if I have another option.
         “Yes,” I respond crisply.
         “Would you say that even if you weren’t okay?”
         “Yes,” I reply.

         He sighs and opens the door.
         “See you later.”
         “Bye.”
         
         I watch him leave, feigning disinterest but secretly hoping he might look over his shoulder as he exits. He doesn’t. I scowl and mumble under my breath. It’s even quieter and lonelier than before, with his roommates in class and the absence of his guitar. The electronic music that they all seem to enjoy has been silenced for the time being, and there is no one clanging pots in the kitchen and leaving the stove on unnecessarily. I attempt to take in my surroundings. The bed is too narrow and the desk across the room is white and cluttered. I consider cleaning up. Spending several days in a messy apartment is forcing me to explore my domestic side.
         
         The floor in his room seems disorderly, but I am hesitant to disrupt anything, for fear that it might be an art project in progress. Instead, I step over the wood, glue gun, and blue suitcase that are blocking the exit, and slip out of the room to scope out the kitchen.

         The sink holds only a few dishes. I turn on the hot water and start cleaning a Monsters, Inc. bowl that is full of something oatmeal-like. I ponder which roommate has selected this as his dishware of choice. It takes me only a few minutes to clean  one or two mugs and several pots that are scattered around the kitchen and living room. When this task is complete, I find myself stranded near the couch with no sense of purpose.

         I am restless. I look around frantically for the next chore, anything to keep me busy. I start toward the bathroom. The white sinks are covered in charcoal, and I don’t want to wipe them out for fear this was intentional. It is sometimes difficult to judge what is meant to be artistic. I glance around for something else to do. I begin arranging the items on the countertop so they at least appear more organized. I come to a can of jock itch spray and freeze. My hand drops to my side, and I promptly exit the bathroom. Unlike with the kitchen items, I am doing all I can not to wonder which roommate this belongs to.

         I go back into his room. I perch on the edge of the bed and begin folding the clean clothes. There aren’t very many, and the task ends quickly. My hands are inactive again, but I am trying to restrain from cleaning anything else. I am starting to feel like a housewife, and the concept disturbs me. Instead, I get more comfortable on the bed and wait for a new idea to occur to me.

         I hear the front door open, but I don’t get up. Within a few seconds, he appears in the doorway. I sit up and smile at him brightly, pleased to be able to have human interaction. The novelty of having alone time wears off rather quickly.

         “Hi,” I greet him, my voice holding slightly more enthusiasm than it did in our previous conversation. He seems distracted.
         "Hey,” he replies, looking around his room instead of at me. “Forgot something. I’m not staying.”
         “Oh.” I’m disappointed, even though I’m aware that his class lasts until nearly ten that evening. He finds the item he’s looking for (a red mug which has no readable purpose to me) and rushes out the door, calling goodbye as he goes down the hallway. I sigh and watch the empty doorway for a few seconds, then turn to face the window. It displays a still scene of Baltimore: a few parked cars, some overflowing trash cans, graffiti.

         I crawl under the covers and go to sleep.