ARI

EDWARDS As We Are

The car is still in the shop, we have about five dollars total between us, the vent in the back bedroom is spitting mould, and I’m worried about my books, the tub is still clogged after a bottle and a half of Draino and a plunger and we need to call the landlord. You’re helping your mom prep for her GI surgery and pretending like you aren’t worried about her, for her sake. (You try to fool me too, but you don’t.) The coffee maker is broken and we’re both bitter about it, finding solidarity in grumpitude. The mechanic calls you with an update, and I watch as your face and voice don’t match. “Okay. Thank you.” (Fuck.) At least the rent is paid. It’s my turn to feed the cats; I walk to the kitchen, three sets of beady eyes follow my every move. Two bowls of dry food for the babies and a plate of wet “slop” for the picky one who’s getting thinner no matter what we do. We both forget to feed ourselves enough to have started a decent collection of prescription supplements; the counter’s a battlefield between our CVS and Walmart bottles (We’ll see who wins).

We’ve got our almost-full-time jobs and I’m almost done with school. My Christian family still thinks we’re only roommates, getting through college.

Last week, you secretly packed a lunch in my bag when I had to work a double.