Bourgeois

BourgeoisRM

#fiction, #bourgeoisnow

He meets her by the bottom of the stairs as he leaves the house. She happens to arrive at that precise time every day. She stopped making eye contact long ago, but expels a polite ‘good morning’ nevertheless, and he responds with the exact same words. Their resented intimacy is echoed around the house, but, as other uncomfortable situations, it remains unspoken. She dreads this encounter. Her face reveals her self-hatred; she resents having to be herself at that moment. She delays climbing the stairs and facing his mess. She is way over fifty, and overweight. The swelling of her ankles indicates diabetes, possibly cardiovascular diseases as well. Without exception, the bedroom is cluttered from floor to ceiling, from corner to corner. Stained dishes, empty beauty products, but mostly dirty laundry cover the entire floor, the bed, and the closets. She wishes she wouldn’t have to suck it up and bend over to pick up his mess.

He pays for his status with his time and dignity. A life of comfort and experiences was promised to him. He was told he deserved everything in the world, that he was handsome, smart, and unique; that he would never receive no for an answer. Superficial friendships and trustless romantic relationships opened up opportunities for him. He was given a key to the door, and a place in the parking lot with his name on it. When he enters that office however, he encounters the bitter reality that, in there, he is just another pawn. He aged beyond his desired position. Several years after graduating he still runs errands for the second, or even third ranked. He executes them obediently and resentfully. Every day he gets closer to admitting that no tailored suit or degree title can upgrade him to the reality he desires. He resents every order he receives, every document he has to deliver, and every meeting where his opinion is not asked for.

But despite these disappointments he arrives home and he is king. He owns everything in and around the property. Fancy furniture, mortgaged cars, and a marble kitchen. He paid for all of this from his own pocket. It belongs to him. He enters the living room and throws his keys onto the glass table, scratching the surface, letting her know he has arrived. All his effort and dissatisfaction comes down to this moment. He turns the tv on, sits on the sofa, and presses his dirty soles against the beige leather. A nasty growl tells her he’s hungry. Before he commands her by the click of his thumb and middle finger, she approaches the room and asks him if he is hungry. She enjoys removing the pleasure of commanding her from him. By now she knows how to read the cues and plays the game like a pro. Every dismissed command is a point in her favor. As she lays the plate on the table she allows the ceramic to clink just a little. Enough to irritate him, but not enough to reveal her intention. He may own the table, the dish, and the food served but when it comes to her, she cannot be owned.