Confronting Him

Confronting Him

A can of shaving cream, a disposable razor and a worn red toothbrush were sprawled on the bathroom sink, the toothbrush a mere two inches from the toothbrush holder where it should have sat tidily next to hers. There was a sprinkling of minute dark hairs in the sink like overspray from a can of paint, despite evidence that an attempt had been made to wipe them away with the hand towel.

Chris proceeded into the living room. The poster-sized black and white photograph of a 1950’s Paris street presiding over the sofa looked particularly austere at the prospect of continuing to share the living room with the large color poster of a popular rock singer in concert displayed kitty-corner to it. She had no personal dislike of this particular rock singer - she enjoyed some of his music herself. But juxtaposed to her quaint European scene his presence was visually jarring.

Ben had hung the poster of the musician the night before without any prior discussion. Afterward he had looked at her triumphantly as if he had done something marvelous, and she had been unable to protest. After all, he had just finished moving in the rest of his things and they would have to share the space.

But she hadn’t really considered the impact the decision to let him move in would have on her senses. She hadn’t realized how badly his red painted bedstand and dresser would clash with her pastel-colored bedroom and French Provincial furniture, how his cheap and sagging bookcase would clutter up the kitchen (the only space available for it), how his extensive record collection would look stacked in metal crates next to her living room wall.

Worse than his inanimate possessions was his dog, Otis. Chris used to think she liked Otis. When she had visited Ben’s apartment Otis had always come up to her excitedly wagging his tail and she had patted his broad head and said “Hi, Otis! Hi, boy.”. Then Ben had pointed to the other side of the room and ordered Otis to sit and he had obliged, rarely moving throughout the evening except to scootch forward while chewing a cowhide treat or to stand occasionally and peer out the window when he heard something passing. Chris had not given a second thought about the prospect of Otis moving into her condominium.

When Ben was home, Otis wasn’t much of a problem. If he became too insistent for her attention, Ben would give him an order and he would immediately back off. But when Ben wasn’t home, Chris couldn’t sit down without Otis coming up and putting his front legs and virtually his front half into her lap. No matter how she tried to imitate Ben, pointing and issuing orders, Otis would not mind her. She had quickly learnt she must leave the bathroom door shut in the mornings while applying her makeup as well, even though it was still steamy from her shower and the mirror was apt to fog up. If she left the door open Otis would invariably come in and stick his nose up her skirt. It was like living with someone's lecherous old uncle.

Chris opened the walk-in closet and sighed. Blocked by Ben’s on-end coffee table and massive weights she could barely reach her clothes and could only touch a limited selection of them at that. Something had to change.

“Why don’t you get a bigger place?,” Jenny asked later that day at work. “Ben makes decent money, doesn’t he?”

Chris pictured the sagging bookcase, the red furniture, the poster and metal crates.“It’s not just that we’re cramped,” Chris replied. “It’s his belongings. They’re all makeshift - cheap, and ugly. I just don’t want them in the house.”

“You don’t want them in the house, or Ben?,” Jenny asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” Chris admitted. “I thought it was a great idea for Ben to move in, everything seemed to be going so well between us. But I can’t stand the way the apartment is now. I feel as if my home has been taken over by an invader. Two invaders,” she corrected, “Ben and his dog.”

That night when Chris got home, Ben was in the shower. Otis came to greet her at the door, accepting her pat on the head before nudging his nose up under her skirt. “Down, Otis! Down!,” Chris ordered, to no avail. She pushed past the dog and strode purposefully into the bedroom. The dog’s brown eyes gazed at her mournfully as she shut the door firmly between them.

Ben’s work clothes lay on the floor on his side of the bed except for one lone sock rolled into a ball that was perched atop the bed. The closet door had been left open and light spilled out around it. Chris sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, uncertain whether she should pick up after Ben or whether she should make him do it himself. She imagined these were the kinds of decisions a parent had to make when raising a child.

The background hiss of the shower came abruptly to a halt. Chris remained seated on the bed. She felt she had to say something to Ben about his sloppiness and about Otis’s rude behavior. Waiting for him to come into the bedroom she felt frustrated and nervous at the same time. She had never been comfortable with confrontations.

Ben came into the room moments later, his hair casually disarrayed. He wore jeans and a sweater that Chris had given him for his birthday. His dark hair was damp and tousled accentuating his boyish features. His hazel eyes seemed to brighten when he saw her sitting there. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, bending to give her a warm kiss and quick hug.

“Hi,” Chris echoed softly, disconcerted by the way he looked and smelled - a botanical/medicinal combination of shampoo and deodorant.

“I thought I’d take you to dinner after your tough day at work,” he said, picking up the dirty clothes from the floor. He missed the errant sock that had nestled next to Chris’s derriere when she had sat down.

“How do you know I had a tough day?,” Chris asked curiously.

“I called you twice. The first time Jenny told me you were on the phone with IS trying to get your computer working and the second time she said you were searching for a missing file. I figured you’d be a little frazzled after all that. Oh, by the way, did you notice my coffee table is gone? John came and picked it up after work.”

“I thought you didn’t want to get rid of it,” Chris remarked walking to the closet and peering inside. Now only the weights blocked her access and Ben had shifted them so that they were less obtrusive.

“I figured I might as well give it away. We only need one coffee table,” Ben replied. When he opened the bedroom door Otis was blocking the doorway, his mouth open in a pseudo-smile while his backend wagged enthusiastically. “Move!,” Ben ordered, pointing toward his left. Otis closed his mouth and seemed to give Ben a sullen look as he slunk out of the way.

“I’m glad I ordered the barbeque chicken. It was terrific,” Chris remarked as they re-entered the apartment later, a styrofoam box clutched in her hands.

“You didn’t eat very much,” Ben replied.

“I get full quickly. Besides, this way I have a good lunch for tomorrow.” She turned toward Ben with a spontaneous smile.

“What?,” he asked, smiling in response.

“Thank you for taking me out tonight. I was - out of sorts earlier, but I feel better now.”

Ben leaned forward and they kissed. He held her closer and the styrofoam container she held creaked in protest.

“Oops! I better put this away before we’re covered in barbeque sauce,” Chris remarked, pulling away.

She walked into the kitchen. As she placed the container in the refrigerator she heard the click...click...click of Otis’s nails on the kitchen floor. When she shut the door he was standing beside her with that same phony smile on his face, begging to be petted. She reached over and patted the coarse hairs atop his head for a moment trying to appease him. Then he ducked his head and thrust his cold nose beneath her skirt. Chris strode purposefully to the kitchen table and snatched up the newspaper. She rolled it into a tight cylinder and turned toward the dog with a scowl. Otis eyed the weapon in her hand and, correctly judging her mood, scurried from the kitchen.

When Chris returned to the living room, Ben had turned on the television and was seated on the sofa. “I thought I’d check up on the news,” he remarked. “Are you going to read the paper now?,” he asked, spotting the object in her hand.

“No,” she replied, coming to sit beside him. “It’s for tomorrow morning when I’m putting on my makeup.”