Apartment Overflow

It’s been 3 whole days, Dex thought, staring at the metallic basin full of ragged, half-rinsed dishes. Stagnant water pooled in a wooden bowl at the center, inching closer to the brim with every drip of the faucet. A thick silence hung in the air of his 2 bedroom apartment, only ever broken by the faucet's dripping and the rapid clicking of a nearby PlayStation controller.

Drip.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before turning to look at the living room. Dirty clothing lay sprawled across the dirt brown carpet and the coffee table was covered in wrappers, old receipts, and a single stray Starbucks cup. At the center of it all was a mulberry couch, decorated by half-finished worksheets and a boy no older than 20. Dex stared at him, but the boy didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he sat, knees to his chest and eyes glued to the television. His fingers danced across the controller, becoming increasingly erratic with every flash of the screen. Sitting on a mop of chestnut hair was a pair of headphones, one ear open to the kitchen, the other immersed in the world behind the screen. 

Drip.

Dex turned back to the kitchen. The counter was disorganized, sporting an unplugged microwave, a toaster, and a leaking coffee machine. The kitchen floor was surprisingly clean, but when Dex looked up, he had to bite down a groan. The cabinet above the fridge was left open, again. Biting his lip, he paced over and slammed it close. 

For a moment, the air was silent. Not even the faucet dared to make a noise. Then, as quickly as it had ceased, the clicking from the other room continued. Dex let out a quick breath, turned, and started towards the living room. He shot the kitchen sink a death glare on his way out.

Drip.

He tore clothes off the floor, cursed under his breath, threw them in the corner, and then did it over again. Over and over. The boy on the couch tensed with every throw, but eventually slipped the headphones over his open ear, seemingly refusing to turn his head to look at Dex. “Victory!” flashed across the screen, but the boy didn’t make any move to celebrate. Instead, he sighed and reached up to free his hair. Then, with his eyes closed, he tilted his head towards the ceiling. 

“So?” Dex said. 

The boy opened one eye to look at him, barely tilted his head, then closed it again.

“I’m going out,” he replied, standing and turning towards the kitchen with a yawn. He stretched like he had just woken up from a long nap. 

“Where?” Dex asked, tossing the last stained tee shirt onto his new pile. The boy paused, then glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes met, but his eyes quickly darted away before Dex could make sense of the expression. He was sure, however, that the boy had seen the fire behind his own. 

“Out.” 

Drip.

Ignoring his friend, the boy made his way to the kitchen doorway. Dex followed. They passed the sink, the boy trying to hide his grimace, but ultimately failing miserably. Whose fault do you think that is? Dex thought, kneading his jaw. The cabinet above the fridge was still hanging open, no doubt having swung back from the force he had used to close it. The boy reached up and slowly eased it close as he passed. Then, without any more delay, he hurried to grab and pull on a coat, and promptly flew out the door. Frigid air rushed in to fill the space left behind, instead dousing the kitchen with the cool scent of pine. Without a word, he was gone.

Drip.

Dex stood there for a moment, staring at the door. The apartment was silent again. For a moment. He kicked the closest kitchen drawer and turned back to the sink. Rolling up his sleeves, he flipped on the faucet, filling the apartment with the low rumble of flowing water. Then, he reached for the ever-present bottle of soap, only to grasp at air. 

Drip.

Dex sat in front of the now silent sink, staring into the dark cabinet underneath. A wet, musky smell greeted him. A dried-up sponge sat in a plastic tupperware next to a half-used bottle of Windex and a jug of laundry detergent. In the corner, a mouse trap layed alone, untriggered but missing its bait. He frowned.

Drip.

The apartment rattled as Dex slammed the cabinet closed. He punched the countertop, only to yelp and clutch his hand. He cursed, shaking his head back and forth to disperse the pain. Eyes glassy, he stared into the kitchen sink, directly at the nearly overflowing wooden bowl. 

Drip.

The water was rippling, reflecting a twisted version on his face… but when the water finally stilled, the scowl and knitted eyebrows remained. It was an expression he was not used to, and, he discovered, an expression he didn’t like.

Dr-

The kitchen rattled as the wooden bowl tumbled around the sink, clashing against other dishes and splashing water onto the counter. Dex ran a wet hand across his forehead and sank to his knees. After a few moments, the sink eased, spluttering as the water drained away. Then, with a final groan, it went silent. He tapped against the countertop, making rhythmic thump thump thump noises fill the room. With a deep breath, he turned and rested the back of his head against the cool metal sink. Closing his eyes, he let loose a long, deep sigh. 

Ding!

Dex’s eyes shot open. He stood, wobbling from grogginess. Quickly, he wiped his hands on an old rag and then crossed the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his posture and ran a hand through his hair before grasping at the door. It slowly creaked open, blinding him with light and forcing him to lift a hand to shield his eyes. There - fidgeting in place - was a boy, no older than 20, with a crooked smile, a cheesecake, and a bottle of dish soap.