As a follow up to my "Adult Backpacking" story, I wrote the piece below, loosely inspired by real events. I know it is rare that I put up short stories on Anita Writes, however, there are some events that are better captured in prose style to create the scene, to put the reader in your shoes when the event occurred, and to also help me write not just about parties, and food and wine, but also about life, in all its colorful glory.
I hope you read through everything. I dedicate this to that my one friend:
Thank you for introducing me to my soft. I hope we both stay soft because it looks a heck of a lot better on us.
She comes in on Sunday night. Fresh faced, young with a smile greeting me as if I’m her big auntie. She drops her bag on the dining table with a plop and sashays into the kitchen like she owns the place, completely oblivious of the pre-existence of another woman in this home.
I cleaned that kitchen today. I cooked, then carefully washed up all the pots, pans and loose food on the kitchen and the kitchen floor. This is not her problem. She wants to establish her presence in this home, show me who’s boss, regardless of my pre-existence, she wants to show me she’s the superior being, like man showed the dinosaurs. She washes her hand in the kitchen sink, washes off those outside germs from sitting in her car waiting for him to come home. She nabs one of my bottles of water from the fridge and proceeds to the living room sofa, grabbing a seat by the corner she crosses her legs comfortably and beckons him to sit beside her and keep her company during her cosy visit.
I bought that pack of water that she has so care freely grabbed a bottle of. I bought and carried it home, my Uber and I, sans personal vehicle. Does she know that? Or does that even matter to her? Does that matter to him?
They proceed to spend quality time on the couch, talking in close whispers and giggling at their jokes. He has said no more than 2 sentences to me in the past 3 days since I’ve been in his home, but for her, he suddenly has words, plenty words, multiple words that come in sentences, oft-humorous sentences that get her to laugh and throw her head back as she sips from the bottled water. They ask each other questions in whispers and she nods in empathy, sharing his point of view on some nonsensical matter or the other, which would have mattered to me if only he had shared them with me instead of the odd words and grunts I have been continuously served. He confides some more, obviously the sharer that he suddenly is, he talks about his weekend, his adventures and they laugh without reference, inclusion, or recognition of me or my presence. She takes a break from the conversation to ask to use the restroom. He stands up to check the state of the restroom before he ushers her in. I pretend not to be insulted. Do you know what the state of that restroom was before I shed my womanly virtues nurturing it? There wasn’t even any toilet paper. No bathroom soap and toilet paper. I hurled the toiler paper, my Uber and I, along with the bottled water. And I dispensed my expensive bathroom gel into the empty dispenser so I could have luxurious soap to cleanse my hands each time I do my business. But that doesn't matter to her. None of this seemingly insignificant details are her problem.
They go back to their cosy discussion on the couch. I toss, turn, feel the darts of insult gently prick me on my dining table chair. I try to write but the words do not find themselves, they sound just as empty as his words to me in the last 3 days. I try to do anything but seem bothered by this girl child in my home. I cannot seem to focus on anything of importance. I call everyone I know and care about. My mom, my aunt, then I call a good girlfriend from Atlanta - big sister always has a solution to every Negro problem. I proceed to have the girlfriend conversation loud and proud in the living room, hoping the noise of my exuberance will deafen and eventually quench the sensitivity of their moment. We talk for 30 minutes and as I end the phone call, this girl still exists, on my couch, in my living room, drinking my water, with her bag on the dining room table right beside mine. This, I sense is a problem.
I try to imagine if I were her what would I do. Will I sit there on the couch sharing a supposed tender moment with this guy while another woman’s in the room? No. I would leave, greet the other woman, acknowledge and respect her presence in the home and then, politely excuse myself on my way home. I don’t want to share my intimate living room conversation with another girl in the same room. She don’t know me. I could be crazy, I have been known to be crazy. I could have grown madder with each intrusion into the home I had managed all weekend, with each step, I could have shown her the way out. I could have said, “Don’t step into the kitchen I spent my Sunday cleaning, don’t open the fridge I cleaned out, and certainly don’t drink the water I hurled over here, my Uber and I.”
Instead I remained quiet. With my phone in hand, and the voices on the other line pleading with me to remain calm, to cage the “Atlanta Housewife” in me and to wait for the anger to dissipate into the Sunday night air. So I did.
For that I write. For humiliating experiences like these and many more. I shoulder the pain so I can have words, that turn into sentences, colorful sentences that make sense and hopefully, empower.
Why else would that be, me, on a Sunday night?
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